The cross

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By Justme

Scarlet red explodes then gently trickles descending the veined banks of weary clasping hands.
Clinging to his swollen throbbing feet.
Her mother tears drip and wash but cannot clean or clear the overflowing red
as his body drains upon her hands.
Smoothing skin stems the flow, to push life backwards, gently gentle for what life is left is precious still, to her, for him, her son.
A kneeling muddy mess, clotted hair bound by sweat and blood and tears.
Built upon a memory of her boy who became a man, not yet forty years.

A single tear, drops from him, to her.
A million years of love, with the fullness of a billion stars and space and time.
A woman cries to the heavens,
Universe, replace this woman, for this child of mine!

No voice returns the call, for heaven sleeps, while rivers roar
No hand of man or earth or heaven can sooth this daggered heart
Softly, simply the breeze of life licks her hair
Gently, easy, quietly, the soul of son slips the cross.
With crisscross sandals submerged within a muddy messy place.
She closed her eyes, this woman, this mother
And then an angel,
kissed her face.

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Credits: Poem © Justme; Images © Michaela (churchyard Niedersulz)