The Holy Broken


The holy broken calls my name,
the one I had before my birth.
I quiet into listening
on this old planet earth.

“You’re older now,
you’re softer, too,
you like a comfortable shoe.”

“Oh, yes, I cried,
“I do, I do.
Now that I’m wedded just to you.

The back is strong; the thighs are firm.
But always, always there’s that worm.
The black dark earth, the murmured prayer
that says “Please take me anywhere
but here.”

The brokenness is bottled fire,
the captured essence of desire.
The crumpled notes, the
unsung voice, the one that
thought it had a choice.

The holy broken calls my name,
it whispers low; it is just so.
Forget the vows, forget the pain.
Sit between the falling rain.

The drops are steady and you are ready.
Can you manage standing up?
Well, sit with me and we’ll all be
drinking from a broken cup.

Vicki Woodyard


  1. Worms, the concrete guy that dream’t up putting caskets in a concrete bow was brilliant, he created a new horror for dead people to worry about , well written thanks!


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