Morning sickness (Friday after dawn)
Thirty-nine cattails.
Bleeding crown of thorns.
Fist upon fist to face, side and below.
Kicks to the groin, the nightmare still to go.
Lies and screams.
Spit and beams.
Torn wounds from skin dried and peeled.
Ground into sand and dust and mud and steel.
Strength destroyed.
Lungs no longer buoyed.
Commanded to walk,
but unable to talk.
Endless despair,
sweat profuse from mangled hair.
God, I want to die,
But first I must be raised on high.
David Sandler © April 24, 2006
http://indosand.blogspot.com/2006/04/easter-poetry_114589174856539905.html
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