Ash and oilmix in paintacross my foreheadA cross myforehead boldly bearsstares at mefrom the mirrorDust of deathto wipe awaylike life—briefUnlike the bread,the strong wine,both now partof my bodymuch like I'mpart of HisLife from deathLife swallowing upsin's spectre greypainting a crossfor Life Himselfto die upon. . .Yet He holdsso much lifedeath is undonelike ash becomepalm once again
___Photo by Ahna Ziegler on Unsplash
Jody,
ReplyDeleteYour verse here is poignant. Poetry...my favorite form of literature. I'm well acquainted with writing verse, but more wary, careful and deliberate these days - In fact, I try to avoid becoming absorbed in poetics as once I was, a very real temptation, but that's another story in and of itself. Perhaps I'll tell you about it sometime if you're truly interested. This piece moved me for several reasons, but hope is the one I'm clinging too as I write this.
Respectfully,
Oh, do you ever publish your poetry? I would be interested in hearing more about your own foray into that realm, if you feel like sharing. There is something about expressing one's soul in poetry (which takes so much longer to achieve in prose).
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