Saviourless

No more grist for the cross,
no more bones broken on the wheel,
no flesh for the pyre,
no blood from the rack,
just clay milling in dull offices
waiting,
waiting,
too bored to wail and
too acclimated to this
state of waiting,
waiting,
for the story to pick up or end,
for the narrator to resume
or announce an end

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