Perfect Villain-Post Ten

The Road

a twisted serpent

lay

t’wixt home of blessed hope

and the final tie where night confines

the day.

There in that shallow shadow of twisted moment’s thought

Red was green

and fell between

with some memories

he’d brought.

He, chaste lover,

 confidant of clowns,

sadly

sinking.

slowly

keeling.

simply

drowns.

While he dies

from where he fell

a slash-ed stain

of crimson

follows him slowly

down the road

toward hell.

That crimson strand

no wound of him

yet set for his defense

a gruesome, gory

bloodsome thing

was worth all men’s offense.

II.

He thought,

whilst he fell,

for fall he did

and

down toward hell,

“If God is real,

If Sin is Strong

If Humankind be flawed

No one can say

He serves a man

Who does not save him from himself

And so keep him for God.

III.

Lone is not the loneliest word

nor One the most common single.

Last is the word most lonely

Last, the word for lonely and alone.

The Last Time:

“I saw him”

“We touched”

“The baby crawled.”

“The flag flew”

“Our lips touched”

“He sang”

“She danced”

The unexpected last time

you know the one

when we got

down to our last strike

the one time you did not look back

to see that loved face

and never saw it again.

The Last Supper

you took with Him

His famous last words

His last rites

Your last wish

to hear Him

one more time

unrequited,

leaving you

with a dozen more years

but lonely every moment.

Every happy moment

interrupted with the thought,

“Just wait until I tell Him…

…about this one…”

Oh.

One, Lone, Lonely

longing

for one more time

that will not come.

He is gone.

I let Him go.

I ran away from Him,

so frightened

He might keep me

and

 I did not look back to see His face.

Writer’s Note: God creates in prose but redeems in poetry. I really don’t want a doctor who prescribes in verse but I know for certain I don’t want a theologian who works only in prose. If you cannot take me out there, and you cannot, make me feel I am on my way. If you cannot work out an equation for God, wherein the penultimate symbol is two parallel lines, meaning, “equals,” you must show me, really show me, what and when and where, even if you cannot tell me The Whom Of It All.

God creates in prose. God redeems in poetry. Why else would we chop up our Bible in verses and call the best parts hymns, if we did not feel God working in us from an inset spool of poems unreeling from the back of God’s head, from the center of the divine heart, from the heart of God Godself?

God creates in prose. God redeems in poetry.

So, I wish us all shabat shalom.

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