The Velvet Glove

The voices cut through
my heart, cut through
my soul with the knives
of their eyes, quiet killers
who question my every move,
doubt my every step.

They are not the religious
who confront you on the street
for some sin you cannot remember,
they are not the angry mob
egged on to stone the apostate, they are not
the secret police that arrive at the door
while your neighbors hide behind
shuttered windows.

They are the velvet glove, the silent
assassins, those who follow
the steps of the pack over the edge
of the cliff, suspended in space,
falling, drifting, weightless beneath
their unquestioning sense
of gravity, of their denial,
of their self-created inevitability.

...and I…

… am not a prophet who cries
from the wilderness nor one who smashes
the golden idols of their delusions…

… I am…

… the sacrifice upon the altar
that beholds the beauty
of the glint of the knife,
that knows there is no lamb
to come from the hand of God
to take my place.