The Rock

Upon the bed lies an empty bag

Warm beams stream from the pane

Empty corners, lovely spaces

Growth in those spaces

 

I perambulate this small square space

Eyes searching the sprawling forest

Of shirts, and ties, and shoes.

I ponder which of these

Should inhabit the bag’s empty corners

The spaces of growth

 

Shall I bring shirts of all colors,

Red, yellow, black, white

A radiant rainbow of vibrant life?

 

Shall I bring this vessel of dust?

Which bursts forth with Sacred Flow?

Which bursts forth with humanity?

Shall I bring the vessel that contains it all?

 

Shall I bring the soft soil that embraces my bare feet?

Shall I bring the verdant undergrowth?

Shall I bring wild light?

Shall I bring with me Sacred Life?

 

Shall I bring this bread and wine?

Shall I bring this holy water of death?

Shall I bring these sacramental paintings?

Shall I bear with me these portraits into life eternal?


Shall I bring books?

A Library of ancient wisdom?

A codex of bloody history?

Pages covered in folly, and joy,

Suffering, pain, loss

Enduring love and grace?

 

Placing them carefully within the empty corners

I see spaces fill

I see vines spring forth

Consuming, feeding

Blooming and bearing

Sweet nectar runs down

Feeding and sustaining

 

The bag is complete

There is no more room

The forest of shirts lies barren

The empty corridors silence

Lays bear the old, tattered, refuse

That used to be y wardrobe

 

In the corner of the barren closet

lies a pure white shirt

Tattered and scorched

Ash marked and torn

Blood soaked and crumpled

and lying in shreds

 

On the shelf rests the shackles

Ages of injustice emanates

An book of European origins

Resides upon the floor

No sources give light

And no life takes flight from

It’s barren and decrepit pages

Remnants of empire is all that remains

Within that empty tome

 

A Throne for a king resides there also

Golden and splendid

The heads of calves for the arm to rest upon

Underneath the gold plating

The Blood of children cry out

The fire that they passed through

Consuming their souls

Containing them within it’s wretched, kingly vessel

 

As I shut the door on this lonely corridor

I hear the rattle

Soil begins seeping from the cracks

I hear the defiant yells

I see the blood shot eyes through the key hole

Then all is silent

As a grave in mid winter

I turn from that grave

And I pull the drawstrings tight

There is a heaviness and lightness to this pack

As dense as granite

As light as porous

This bag, this rock, is in forward motion

Leaving the bloody past in it’s grave

Finding a new plot from which a structure can be built

Growing out of the rock itself.

 

I go with it, holding it tightly and loosely

Feeling the weight and the lightness of it all

Never fully contained in this Rock

The vines creep through, bursting forth

Soon this rock will be too small, too weak, too fragile.

When that day comes, it will be time to pack once more

To move to the next structure that we will call home.

But for now, I will rejoice in the rock that I’ve found.

 

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