The Cross

My cross is heavy. Tired, I drag it slowly; navigating hidden paths to avoid those that may try to hurt me. In the darkness of the night with blood and heavy sweat I stumble and fall on one knee. Splinters of weathered wood tear into me. My cross is heavy but it is mine to carry; looking back with tears in the wind I see, and hear the moans and cries of those just like me. In droves we walk slowly, and carry on in pain; blood drips on snow, dirt, grass, concrete and open road, and is washed away by rain. Bloodshot eyes are teary and filled with rage. In the book of tears with millions of chapters and soiled with blood, I angrily write another page.