Tuesday, April 30, 2013

The days are cold but my hands are moving.

I have been writing, but haven't been posting it on here.  Will that change?  Man, I hope so.  And if hope is all I have, it's enough.  This poem was an attempt to ask a question; I'm not going to come back to it.

Insubstantial Morsel, Immolated Cup.

Held reverent, clutched tight against your chest,
much like important books in rainy days,
Your ever shredding truth hypothesis;
the ever present symbolism haze.
This is His flesh, and, this is not a pipe
His blood, thick on our garments, red and loose:
I offer you an insubstantial slice
of wholemeal bread and watered down grape juice.

This, the triumph of the greatest miracle?
This fundamental turning point of time
When Truth stood true both figurative and literal
Is given, then denied that it be mine?
I clutch my bible close against the rain
that erodes; re-affirms; erodes again.