The Garden
The darkest shroud walks in this sunlight
and heavy upon the wind the birds sing
dull the flower colour so iridescent in their petals of grey
such sand and rock to the blood will cling
and still feel the iron hammered in pain
there in the torture of wood
I remain
to bleeding temple the thorn and spike of love
and to the anguish of forgiveness
this throat rasps
are my tears spent in vain
and god be damned the olive branch
and god, dear god, the gold please melt
so stripped to sand and burn my heart
I will wait in the garden
Gethsemane
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
