And So, Jacuzzis [SPN poetry]

Coda to Supernatural, 11.17 “Red Meat”


What words, what words? How could he ever say
the aching, endless hollow he had felt
at sight of seeming death’s too-soon decay,
the slackened neck, stilled hand, and blood-soaked belt–
but duty, pitiless, called him away.
Else, statue-like, he waiting would have knelt
beside his broken heart, would weeping stay
until his grieving bones did even melt
as did his eyes; his weary head would lay
down in the dust where then his brother’s dwelt.
Folly seemed like wisdom then: why not pray,
sacrifice self to shuffle the hand dealt–
Not the first time tried, but first time failed: who
could admit such great defeat? And so, “I knew.”

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