Holy Saturday

The prayers of Holy Saturday
hang limp in the morning air.
As  though all meaning
has been squeezed from them.
That the sun
has not yet risen,
or refuses to.

If they summoned the strength
in their anaemic form
and reached the gates
Would anyone let them in?
Who would hear them?

I’ve just watched Him
body ripped apart
burnt on the raging fires
of my pride
of my vanity
of my shallow love.

Who do I speak to now?
Now that He is dead.

SJMC+
(Written:15.IV.17)

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