The Thirteenth Hour

The thirteenth hour tolls its way
into your very soul - its silence
reaching deeply into you. Here
time and space become a misty
haze of evermore.

Cathedral towers reaching for the
heaven of the skies; but then the cross -
oh loss of earthly bliss! Crucified, left
unredeemed, the suffering we feel.
Bells chime another dirge, funereal.

What once seemed real becomes an
endless movement of the wind. Icily,
the drizzle hits your skin - damp chill that
soaks into your very bones. Shots are
fired, twenty-one, and then the golden
horn begins to weep sweet harmony
that beckons us to sleep and dream again.

Committed, thought of sin becomes
internal suffering. Bury it, within the earth,
or there, within those particles of flesh,
just wishing it would heal itself again
in the unknowingness that enters in,
and makes the world spin so dizzily.
Weep - oh no, don't shed a tear where
anyone might see!

Timeless, bold and unrepentant,
the thirteenth hour tolls the vision
of your nightmare dreams. Abiding,
as your heart begins
to beat its misery...

? Michaelette ?

3/15/2002
Copyright© 2002 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...