Poetry

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I'm picking out the splinters from my back,
these traces of humility and shame.

But…

Maybe I should just let this heavy cross
drive them deeper into my deteriorating spine.

(On second thought,
it hurts too much
and everyone can see.)

He convinced me to take up my cross,
and it sounded plausible at the time.

But…

Now my sorrow’s weight drives my face into the mud
and my shaking legs are too weak to lift my weight.

(I've become content
lying right here,
drowning in pain.)

His face flashes quickly into my mind
and it excites the strength left in my arms.

Without looking...

I reach my trembling hands into the sky,
hoping to catch scraps falling from heaven.

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