Criss-Cross

Thorns Ring The Skull.

The physicality looms

 Rust through a palm        No historian, archeologist, geologist        Rust through a palm

can deny the existence of DNA in dried blood

which dripped that day, down the wood

puddles, puddles of crimson

which pooled that day at the base in the mud

Dome of sky, blacked as night

Darkness finally blanketing the Light

Pitter- patter claps of cheer

Splitter-splatter drops wretched as tears

unnoticed was their difference descending to the ground

Tasting of salt, landing on cheeks,

rolling down

Something wrong trickled and spilled across His flesh in the blood

In streams of red laced strings of black,

it filled the pores, it burned His skin

He’s abandoned and forsaken

We watched and waited and wailed for his death

It is said that next there were quakes

They rocked and swayed the cross

He hangs like a rag doll that shakes

His eyes are slits, seeing confusion beneath the hate

Even distances later we ring around to torture the terrors

swept away by the cause

“They know not what they do.”

As we chant and chime our blasphemes rhymes

and our sin was the black speckling the blood

Rabid rivers running

poison over naive skin

First loss of innocence, like a child’s kidnap from kin

    “It is finished.”

The sky rumbled and cracked,

a wrath that has echoed through the ages after attack.

I don’t know of the wind that whipped that day

or of the silence that held the bodies that stayed to watch Him cease,

But even now I hear the echo of the answers,

“Freedom means release.”

Rust drilled between metatarsal bones

To no comparison are my moans

I watch through years of distance

 a film of dust over the ancient lens.

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