I want to scream,
But I have lost my voice,
I want to shout
But I choke on the syllables.
I want to rage against my heart-
But you have stolen my anger.
You’ve made me a lover
A dieing one….
You’ve made me.
That is the point.
How can I revile
When you stood so silent,
Lamb-like in the face of violence?
Violence that raged against your reputation-
The glorious healer accused as a blasphemous robber
Pillager of doctrines, and traditions of men.
How you ransacked their house….
Mine feels like a petty offense:
That one would not believe the sincerity of my love.
You felt that too
That love that would walk across a thousand hells to reach
A hand toward the afflicted.
Only to have the afflicted, drowning hand grasp at air,
Refusing your strength.
Oh the anguish of your soul
At the choices of men
When your broken body
Was the bridge
They could have crossed, but refused.
Could we agree then?
In your sufferings-
Would you fashion in me
A heart bold enough to brave hell to reach a hand extended
To the offended,
To brave the spit,
For the sake of a kiss?