only the angel could reach out its hands.
And gently touch the rings of pain that run
in bands throughout the form you are.
Perhaps that healing would be enough.
to get you through another day.
Enough to make the movements go astray
from ways of human detriment. Enough
to keep you standing tall today.
shoulders. Hands in pockets.
Walking round the path where markets
hale their wares. That busy place
where no one really cares.
loneliness within the crowds
can find a way to shout out loud
within the silence growing in your head.
You notice that their tears are never shed.
family that gives a damn.
No hearth of home that might expand
the little love left living in your heart.
But you can't really start again
not until you're finished with it all.
memories, the silent pleas -
for all the love that used to be.
Rattling around inside your chest.
And yet your best was never good enough.
voices ringing through the singing
of the choir in the church. The pew seems
less offensive at the end. You know you'll
need a point of swift departure.
altar shines. It doesn't rhyme
with all the acts committed there.
You track a hidden feeling from your youth.
The one you never told for lack of proof.
want to scream it from the rafters.
How the children had been shafted
by the priests. Not just the boys.
For girls were seen as toys as well.
into the passion of an ancient
sacrifice. The stations of the cross
were patterned vice. As if to say
the only way to happiness was
through such agony.
murderers had all received reprieves.
Through the justice of the laws of make-believe.
Political in faction. Quite insane, the cruel
refraction of the light of life they chose
to wield again.
of reflections of mere men.
Disbelief kept running through their veins.
If only the angel could reach out its hands.
And touch and feel life's great demands.
Perhaps that healing would be enough
to bring us back to utter love...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2004 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .