About The Cross

About the Cross

Without stilts
the grey man cannot see
over the cloud cover
and is kept from light.

Steeples and crosses
slice ancient wounds
into the subtle cascade of light
from shy stars.

Eyes full of tears
feet bleeding,
the grey man bent
dwells on steeper pathways.

None of us here can hear his weeping.

We are busy with our own salvation,
Wilting underground,
sheltered from nails searching for skin.

The grey man continues to walk,
the spikes rust as they twist
into the flesh of his back.

He notices nothing
but the longing of his soul
for peace and protection.

We have never protected him.

We place him on our cars
on buildings on walls
around our necks
like some generous charm.

We stuff all of our mistakes down his throat
so he chokes and becomes the hero,

The savior.

But we have never saved HIM!
never released him from his cell of pain
and limitless responsibility...

The grey man shrugs
beneath the pressure
of countless souls,

and we do nothing
but ask...for grace...for peace.

--release Him!
watch the nails
dislodge and

The way His smile,
stifled for centuries
spreads into light

human once again. . .