Jump to content
Poetry Magnum Opus
Sign in to follow this  

This Man

Recommended Posts


These punctures on the head, with blood dried, masked his face, 
were pierced by mockery and thousand insults weaved 
like spikes in thorn branches, his crown for his head.

This skin, these lesions, sank death closer to the bones.
These bruises came from lies so wicked enveloped in fists 
whose blows spared neither body nor limbs.

This back was disfigured, lacerated, and torn open 
by sheep bones of hate, each clawed itself into skin,
into flesh, with every flagellum's whip.

These ribs, this open fissure, jabbed deep by a spear, 
poured forth water of forgiveness, streaming 
to cleanse an earth, blood-soaked.

His time of death-
3 pm, Friday.

(NOTE: In time for Lent, I edited this poem and cleaned it up a bit.)

"Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach

Share this post

Link to post
Share on other sites

Join the conversation

You can post now and register later. If you have an account, sign in now to post with your account.
Note: Your post will require moderator approval before it will be visible.

Reply to this topic...

×   Pasted as rich text.   Paste as plain text instead

  Only 75 emoji are allowed.

×   Your link has been automatically embedded.   Display as a link instead

×   Your previous content has been restored.   Clear editor

×   You cannot paste images directly. Upload or insert images from URL.

Sign in to follow this  

  • Create New...

Important Information

By using this site, you agree to our Guidelines.