Take this life,therefore,
when you cannot sleep
and lead me to the fields,
the trees, your eyes.
There split me along
my jagged seams
and even if I could
fight back, read me
and I will almost hear.
Take this cross to
the long, lake shore
and, against all that,
say the man who lives
that certain Saturday
shall see stigmata
in above-ground cemeteries.
What must I do to stay
for a breakfast of
spiced meat and
fried potatoes?
Author notes
A poem of journey.
A contest entry
- Pick a prompt and run with it! by silverscent.
525 points, ended March 23, 2008, 20 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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