An icy wind
brushes up
against my nose
lacerates the face
then scatters
into the darkness
of a cold, winter’s night—
a wilderness only
forsaken men
dare tread.
And I am frozen
at its touch.
Steady, monotonous
footsteps echo
and wander
straight
into the heartlessness
of the unknown,
nudge me
somewhere maybe
nowhere probably
wait
turn and pause
at the home
of an only dream,
an entire uncertainty,
of,
a girl.
And I am captivated
by the movement.
Dark, flowing hair
and sea-blue eyes
blend and swirl to
gentle laughs and brightness of life,
cast her shadows
across
these frost-bitten hands,
too afraid to shatter
the perfection
by daring
to knock at the door.
And I
am ruined by this moment.
Concentric street-light
hovers amid
towering oaks
and suburban homes
where
—late into the night—
little explorers
—who should be asleep—
mesmorize Mommies
and dance with Daddies
—who should know better
and send them off,
straight to bed.
And I am moved by their
overlapping grace.
And, God, how I envy it.
Roads end
up
dead
ahead
here
at a vast, sacred building
overshadowed by
a decaying crucifix
too elevated for anyone to patch
atop the hollow halls
of a derelict cathedral
darkened by
over-contact
with
human desolation.
And I am grieved at the loss,
for great was the fall thereof.
God.
I have never heard the thunder in his voice
or seen him raise a son from the dead.
I have never felt the weight of my sins fully lift,
never touched the blinding face
or tasted of the heavenly blessings
thus promised.
But.
no matter how hard I claw or scratch
or to what extents I reach,
I cannot budge
—even an inch—
this itching
aching
sensation
just beneath my skin
that there is
something more to all this
that the haze outside
might be due
more
to the frailty of my eyes
than to any awful
malevolence
inherent in these skies
that grow bright with every sunrise
and remain oh so blue
once the clouds
eventually
subside.
And so
I still pray.
even if heaven remains
deathly silent.
And I sing.
even if the birds
are the only saints left
with enough sense
to remember how.
And I cry
and wrestle with the Divine
—imploring him to
please, spare my life—
even if it means
getting my hip
or my head
knocked out of place.
This is the only love
I know.
the only path
I have left.
It may not be your way;
you may not
have gotten
yourself so
lost
in the wastelands
like I have,
but I can no longer hear
your beckoning calls,
so I must find my own way.
Oh, let me simply follow the sound
of that old carpenter
patching the roof
beating his nails
into the face
of a mending Crucifix
atop the luring halls
of a brilliant cathedral
stirring
with a
lust
for over-contact
with my
human desolation.
And the rhythmic pounding
of the hammers
‘gainst the nails
reminds me of a story
I once heard
—and believed—
as a child
and now still
as a man
gracecoat 