I have come to know the ones who walk away,
I have wept for those whose steps have gone astray.
In the rolling quiet our sentences turn cold,
clothed in pale grief, too fragile to behold.
At those times I longed to be an altar’s sheet,
blood-stained rag that I laid out beneath your feet,
so I could become for you the one I am,
but now all is ended — Good Friday seals my hand.
Crosses in our hands, we drink our grief away,
headlong will we fall into the doomsday fray.
What once was returns, what never was conspires,
a bullet’s burning kiss, the spittle of the fly.
As the final glow fades slowly from our sight,
the crafted temple arch collapses in the night.
You’ll be filled alone, yet I am cast away,
the branches may vanish, the fire’s left to stay.
Cast aside I stand, a jester far too small,
a woeful stain upon the weeping skyey wall.
Skylines in my hand, I release you in pain,
I entomb you still and mourn you once again.