A Portrait of My Love on His Crucifix
On an empty night, I caressed your hair for the last time. Had I known that, I would have decollated your head earlier, for my compartment would have taken you as a perpetual guest. It has gone cold, and for that, I intended to starve that void of touch. This time, at least, I would have known your corpus is safe within my confinement.
This cruel world has twisted the taste of your convivial sweetness till the pomegranates turned bitter from the sourness. The knights surfaced with weeping hearts, yet a dozen golden coins made their separation from their Lord inevitable. Treacherously, they bit the hand that created them. This grudge had grown and filled itself up until contempt consumed the flesh and blood of your once-beloved apostles.
You, however, were too keen on trusting the wildest of horses in reaching the end of a rugged road. My awareness of that had painted you a martyr since the beginning of time, and through your moments of disintegration, my greatest gift for you could not yield you a sword. Even if it did, I have never witnessed a sword vigorous enough to cut through the finest of wood.
After I had drawn the curtains, you peeked in between until your most loyal observer collected the valuable dimes. The cottage’s walls sought God’s helping hands, but even the boisterous of screeches were not loud or worthy enough to reach him. Marvelous, isn’t it, how he is always watching, but never discerning?
As I cradled you, the love I had continued to remind me of the sea of despair waiting to be forsaken behind. My hands bled, dripping on your eyes, whose tears had already been soiled in deep red. My steadfastness could not last long when they arrived as their thirst transcended my devotion.
I pled to know if it had been me or you. I thought I had already grasped all the rancor and perfidy in me for and towards my creator. I wandered and wondered if love and loathe can coexist towards a man- fully God, fully Human. This perplexing identity prompted me to give up the neutral grounds I initially taught myself to stand on. I relinquished my love for shiny platters for I could not bear your nailed reflection on the ceiling. Whilst you, confidently, still showed to my dinner table with your nectar.
Wandering through the meadow
Behind the echoing chapel
I saw the second Romans
This subversion won’t stop
Until your crest weighs down
This love cannot save you
I hid the wood
And set fire to the complicit pines and cedars
They kept regenerating and planting
Cultivating your deathbed
They’ll come through the night
For not even darkness can suppress the horrors
Written for your eyes to witness
Should I have been born as Mary?
Was your grave dug by my own hands?
I can no longer patronize your nailed fingertips
I built a dispossessed cradle
My love is doomed
For they learnt from the first murderer
As I slept
I heard them storm in
This crucifix shalt perish your sorrow
Until mine continues, persists, breeds.
