Poetry

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© Bob Barra, 9-26-07

Cuss me out; it will be grace;
Any word from you will be kindness;
It hurts so much to think of your face,
Knowing you have borne my blindness;

Know you’re remembered everyday;
How can I forget my own blood?
With each recalling, please know I pray,
That you’re taken from that flood;

I can’t know the wound you carry,
Not by my pathetic imagination;
I’m sure its void you’d wish to bury,
Like an enemy from another nation;

The tug I feel, the searing weight,
Is lighter than what you bear;
The apathy I showed, far worse than hate;
Just how could I dare?

There’s nothing to hold against you;
I bear my sin as my own,
The pain you know, too cold and true;
Far greater than my millstone;

But it’s there, nonetheless;
The loss of trust, as well as love;
Others see me as something less
Than human; not worthy of the mud;

This millstone, I write to my own shame
Covered in holy blood, is my own;
But I'll be given another name
Written on an alabaster stone.

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