I stand in the distance watching.
People are everywhere.
The encompassing fog is grievously
compressing the crowd into the moment
like passengers on a tiny ship
in a incubus hurricane.
People are screaming and angry.
Someone is crying.
The air is permeated with molten passion.
My lungs are heavy with
the weight of the torridity.
The smell of hatred lingers
stagnant in the mist.
One man, swaddled in the grime
of white, has a spear lined with
strips of anemic rags
pallored with dust and age.
He is shouting JEW, JEW,
I look to see who he is shouting at.
As I look up, I see men
hanging on tree crosses.
Two are screaming in torment
and begging for exoneration.
The other is hanging as though
impregnated with a pain
greater than the pain of the flesh.
The man in the crowd is waving
the spear, still shouting BASTARD!!!!
My mind is repeating No, No, Not My Jesus.
He is looking down at the man,
I hear his minds voice cry out
GO AHEAD KILL ME !!!!
The crowd is virulent.
Jesus is unsoundly repeating,
GO AHEAD KILL ME !!!!
My psyche is inextricably screaming,
NO! THAT IS NOT HOW IT HAPPENED!!!!
MY JESUS DID NOT SAY THAT!!!!
This is not the story from spring pageantry.
There is too much pain, anger, and sadness.
This place is too squalid
for the death place of my Jesus.
The man with the spear
is becoming more vociferous.
Jesus is silently provoking.
In a moment of malignant rage,
the spear flies from destinies
sweating and dirty hand digging deep
into the flesh of life’s light.
Blood begins to pour out of him
like maple flowing from it’s abode
onto to crowds below.
Swirls of the red elixir swim toward me.
I am confused by its depth.
As it flows past me,
silver platters of bread
are floating in its stream.
I slide down onto the rocks around me,
bewildered by all that I had witnessed.
The blood began to drip
like tears on to my skin.
It is so warm to my flesh.
I sat, in awe, watching the blood weep over me.
I stood up and looked around.
Everything is blanketed in blood.
Even the man with the spear is still
standing arm stretched in action
and mouth open in anger,
enveloped in lights life prescription.
Nothing universe can compare to this.
There is silence from everywhere,
except, one voice that is sweetly whispering,
“Washed in the blood. Washed in the blood.”
My Drawing, My Thoughts, My Compilation