A prophet’s surrender.
One child’s message
scrawled into sands, where
blood became heavier
than everything carried.
A mother recovers.
Her eyes, no longer
bawling for crippled lands
that her child uncovered.
A world, ahead. Scars
drawn into weathered hands.
For eyes, that peered
through thorns, into skies
sharing light like a moon,
light like noon.
For a heart,
one that sunk beneath,
before ascending above.
He took his message
to be his anchor,
to be everyone’s weight,
to be everything’s fate.
A mother cried, once,
to be silenced at last,
like her child in her arms,
like all sadness once his.
A mother remembered
when flesh became fruit,
when blood had been
an ocean to cross.
An anchor beneath rain,
scars driven, out of sight,
outside, from her pain.
A message that spoke
of what cannot be repeated.
Rain that falls like black ink
upon porcelain tapestries.
Modern Romanticism 