Sermons from the Butcher’s Block

Do you crave to feast
upon my sins, sinew, and scar tissue,
crisping skin beneath the rage
of your blackened hands,
searing what’s left of a soul
against your scorching greed?

Grind me down, press me flat—
let the heat do its work.
Lay me bare upon your slab,
basted in your venom.
The grapes of wrath you squeeze
run red upon the earth,
fermenting into bitter wine
you drink to wash down
the last traces of my name.

There is no temple here,
only a battlefield made of bones,
and the silence that follows
the crack of another man
breaking under your hunger.

You eat what you kill,
but even in your victory
you’re left hollow—
your teeth grind to dust
against the bone of battles
you’ve already lost.