JoelJosol Posted April 15, 2019 Share Posted April 15, 2019 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.) Quote "Words are not things, and yet they are not non-things either." - Ann Lauterbach Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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