13 Steps to My Own Crucifixion

I can barely remember the entitled sense/as I mounted the stairs to my crucifixion. One I had chosen, as I was judged, /if not by fire, then by water./I could only respect the twine around my wrists,/as I tampered with my being,/getting ready for the big day./Many voices thunder,/out of black liquor and ice,/rain came in volleys/ to dampen the sands./But that’s not unusual:/to be foreign in skin,/ to someone close to a pinprick, /side by side, careful not/ to try for an overcoming,/defying the low tones of the scuffle/portraying themselves as the death of all Nature./With a constant grimace that floats through the air,/lethal weeping all night long,/planning to rob our young graves, side by side./Lashed to strange mottoes, pleased the haunted eyes of the crowd/ had fallen on me, alone,/eager for the cord to tighten/chest combusting in fear./A robust rising /in the face of a clockwork,/governing young and old time./Belayed by a light rainfall, /final shiver in the marrow/a sudden pulse, unaccounted.

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