at the cross

at the cross

at the cross

betwixt my compassion

and the realm

of my protective psyche

i am being nailed

my hands have holes in them

and i can neither grasp

nor hold to

and valid logics

nor reason

as to why we are,

so i cling to the etheric qualities

of beliefs

of which are unseen

yes Father, am i forsaken as well

i ask

do tell me

that the crooked paths of life

i have walked

is the right way

and will become straightened

some day

my soles are bleeding

from the spikes of retribution

that have also penetrated my heart

and i leave a trail of blood

evidencing my departure

from that realm

which once embraced my solace

i pray you not take nor follow

my private journey of anguish

nor learn my language

for i know you have your own

to bear

as reason chokes

the light out of it’s own sanctity

i sit here enveloped

in the folds of time.

we fare well together,

she indifferent

i weary

teary

silently awaiting new fears

to be borne

and manifest unto my here-ness

and each one comes to test my resolve

and “time”, she leaves a trail as well

softly etched in the sands of memory

moved by the light winds

laden with wisping values

in my consciousness,

there is a reaching

i am aware

that the effigies

do fade

with each cresting testing wave

that comes to kiss my shores

leaving remnants of other lands

for further examination

and scrutiny

of my mutinous convictions

another juxtaposition

another cross

is visited upon me

that i again may chose

there is no winning nor losing

there is the horizontal plane of “be”ing

and or allowing

and thus the vertical-ness

of ascension

or descension . . .

i smile

my dissension overcomes me

my legs are not broken

and i shall walk on

even with this aching stitch

in my side

from the silly wounds of persecution

and mockery

my compassion is ever abound

and it does pain me

to see so much woe

within me

about me

within you

in the end

i defend valiantly

most times

the rights of passage

resurrection of the hallowed things brings

e’en if the victory

does appear shallowly hollow

and as i resuscitate,

massage the heart of my inner child

back to life

i tell him the Sun comes soon

and all will be ok

even if at times we do express

and

redress our indifference

with pretty costumes

so none

may assume they know of

our true identity

for this is our lot

to bear this cross

of the lost

yet . . .

let us be mindful

careful

e’en in our woefulness

to not throw the baby out

with the bathwater

while we offer reverent obeisance

penance and prayer

in our suffering here

bearing the weight of life

at the cross

© 14 February 2012 : William S. Peters, Sr.