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Friday, February 17, 2012

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
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
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
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.

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