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.

Cirrhosis of the Soul

The gangrenous stench of torment scorches the nostrils
The rotten carcasses of many souls lie
The ghastly scars of cirrhosis are evident to horrified eyes
Under a black moon the fires of agony viciously consume
They have been rejected by blood but cry no more
Leprous outcasts and wanderers with no home they are
They walk the road of hell in hopes of reaching heaven’s door
Injured souls seek to repair themselves;
The hideous scarring causes the earth to turn away and weep
The oceans well up with rising tides
Peace and a haven is unceasingly sought with tears and bloodshot eyes.