You died You died for my sins committed in the inns of prostrating limbs. & blood spills   from your side like a kite a death in sight & a warrior’s hindsight   The unending grue of a sky, blue preached on a pew– & the screw tight   On the cross of Calvary The knowledge of an apothecary a weight you carry for my sins on a parry.   Your blood, pink, a flowing pint & a sorrowed tint to wash away my stint   You died Now I can have life Because life is a pie Of a sweet nigh To console the cry   A sinner like me Worthy not to stand before thee To make a plea Or awash in glee   I hereby make a recompense a prayer devoid of sense a prayer that pierce through your veil   Here I am, undeterred on the coal tarred ground, head bowed bowed before a guard   Mary, white and bright came in tears that night Your body a blight of many unresolved, wounded fight   You died on a beautiful Friday I came that day to make a pay to seek atonement for the days   I lay in prostrating limbs with many layers of sins uncovered and dotted like pins in stilted mountainous inns   A beautiful sight of a flowing, nostalgic kite wavering and trembling like my plight Those days were tight–   A childhood, reminiscent of my priesthood made prominent in the hood. Days I wasn’t in the mood   to take a look at the pink blood oozing from the silk of the many maidens’ unclothed guilt a sin to be placed in gilt.   You died blood in there in the bare streak in your pair of hands, like the ears of a skittering deer   Like two unconsumated lovers lying under the moonless sky in an inn the sky a cloudless, sprawling blue, a merge of white and pink.   Leave it there by your tomb, here a white veil & the body of a hare I am lying bare   before this tomb, seeking atonement a solemn endearment from the inner circle of my ferment heart, a confluence of penance and abandonment   I am standing, looking at the sky, blue You married to the cross, a grue. A message I– a priest and pastors preach on the pew Of the soon departing clouds and the accompanying dew   You died On the cross is a veil wrapped around your waist, torn at 3, a death mysterious, your hands flail & weak hackneyed to a tight screw unpaired.   Unbarred, unflinching, unmoving; the angels arrived on the tomb stones paved way for your body, unstained unstinted, unencumbered, moved   to heaven. The angers a choir In my heart a raging fire of unquenchable hope & trust on your flight. your departure carrying my prayer high–   answered, lifted off my chest. You are in heaven now to make a request I’m here on earth waiting for a sign, a pest— Something to dot the blue sky, my prayer made by a zestful heart. Has been answered. I am waiting, I’ll wait, I have waited.   Nothing.