Easter Pangs
White lilies trumpet
star-shaped shouts
of praise
that pierce the prison
of the grave.
Yet my mood is far
from risen—
This earth seems so
un-saved.
My heart is barbed
with thorns;
the doctors say
they’re veins.
Then arteries
are vines,
vines with thorns,
I say.
April 9, 2017
for PASCHAL PREMIER Contest
Copyright © Rita A. Simmonds | Year Posted 2017
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