There is no one coming for me,
No loving whisper in the night,
Just blackness, deep and lonely.
He took up his cross at an early age,
He fell, fell, and fell again with each labored step,
Horrid dreams, eternal and consuming.
There are no heroes in a lonely song,
No saint to wipe this suffered man’s face (she has turned away),
Just fantasy, angry and unforgiving.
You have your bridge you fear to cross,
And he had the scenes replayed within his mind,
What you feel as you stand on the wooden span he has felt a million times,
What you see he has seen countless times before,
Yet you behave in a way he has no right to in a reaction he is not allowed to have.
You would leave him in the darkness for what he has seen,
You would cast him aside as if he never tried for the love of his life,
You would pretend you never knew.
Get beaten at the bridge a thousand times,
Have memories there burned into your soul a thousand times more,
Then have what you love say “no” in remembrance of how it destroyed you,
Have what you desire reject the very sight of you because of what it did to you,
Then tell me fair saint, how do you turn away if not because you do not love?
It was love that offered the veil,
It was love that left the imprint.
It was your rejection that caused either to be necessary.
He created himself a monster, and a monster he became.
Such thick skin was needed in order to survive,
You would never have known a dead and rotting boy,
Your treasures would not be there to hold had the monster never lived.
Yet you pretend so easily it is a demon, you never see that it has died,
You are too busy creating it over and over and over again,
So that the monster lives, if nowhere else then in your ability to reject what created it.
“My God, My God, why hath thou forsaken me?”
“Because I can.”
“It is finished.”
“It was finished before it started, it is not I who created you it was you who created me.”
And so it is.
And so it was.
And so it will always be.
©2010 Thomas P. Grasso All Rights Reserved ☮ ℓﻉﻻ٥ ツ