Your captivating scent

has led me to the temple of your art.

I climb the steep steps tied but willing.

I lie on the low stone table.

I raise the flint chipped knife

to your honour

And to the bleating of the bushy lambs

I rip my chest to hand to you

my beating bloody heart.

You smile and hand it back

and stuff it in my body.

“Your sacrifice is not wanted.

The lamb will do instead.”

So I live on, my heart still beating

in my breast.

And struggle with the thought:

I am not chosen.