In lonesome love of cloud-wisps’ hope, legion’s wistful, wishful eyes did grope for torch’s light in dismal skies, praying solace of deliverance may come upon nigh.
Knowing, a poet’s eyes draw woefully down, thereupon, twitching, on snowy ground, thrashing unabashedly, truth’s splendor be found, gasping, as it quivers its last gurgling sound.
Deafened by beggars’ buzzing drone, then fallen beneath earth’s tumbling stone, whose weight He could not shoulder alone, His own faith hath became a whispering wraith, His own frailty becoming wholly known.
Beneath the stone where He hath writhed, those dear loved, then near despised, compassion’s pain rolled over again, shadowed by heresy’s coals of disdain.
Though the bloody scene grotesque, a bit of pity found for Him now laid to rest, taking his quill, a poem was scribed, a martyr’s tale of Him who hath died, while angels cried, a sterling sun as it shined, seemed to reflect the will of the divine.
This is intense, Eric! Love the format, the rhyming prose!
I once wrote half a story like that, and I still count it among my favorites ever written. Perhaps someday I will share it, though it would be a long read…
Plus it might reveal the romantic in me, whom I have kept gagged, hog-tied and imprisoned for many years. Not sure I want to do that, so maybe not sharing is the way to go… lol!
Thank you, Lisa. Let that romantic loose.. besides it’s illegal to keep people tied up in the basement, even it’s ourselves 😉