dead, he walks
through small southern towns
and dirt lanes
cheated more than they should
a chapel on the rise-
never seen
as eyes of the damned
have no visage to maintain,
no clearance through briar fences.
christ-
in all his hollow glory
under golden acrylic
behind plastic seems
and the weeping
opaque glue
fastening hands that never bled
to a cross made in his own image
He watches over this town.
disgust shows, even from eyes
fabricated, untouched
yet he remains.
time, cruel to all,
and the withering town
sinking farther, further, to something you may believe in
a cavern
a wasteland
a hot spring
a hell
and Christ's image changes
the unblessed eyes
to them-
in all his holy distance
in all his lofty placement
from the town all to be seen
is a single lone crow
atop a hill of briars where a mighty chapel once stood.
YOU ARE READING
NEW HEARTS & COLD SEAS
Poetrywhen they seek you out because they know they can, because they know they can get away with it - anonymity is your friend.
