Made Of Stone

Made Of Stone

He tells it every terrible thing.
His supplicant words definite
in the candle-cold air.
Not penitent. Beyond that.
Asking only to be heard.
It says nothing.
Doesn’t react.

The literal captive audience.
Arms wide to accept his truth.
Palms nailed open eternally
to receive whatever is given.

Chest arching a mad angle,
forever cruellest. Every rib
a ripple on a listening shell.
It never moves.
Suspended in execution.

People are made of stone.
So is this. But it hears him.
For once, he believes,
but only in that.

This replica of a dead man
who was always only a myth
to him. Despite his mother’s
milk tears and bitten stigmata.

He will stay here a while,
keeping company
with painted blood-streaks
and pain carved by artisans.
He knows it will be the one
to blink first.

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11 responses to “Made Of Stone

  1. One of my favourite writer’s quotes: “Each morning i brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.” – Dorothy Parker.
    I believe Ms. Parker would have been very proud to have written what you just wrote! I love it!

  2. T’is beautiful, painful and deep is he the Christ? it doen’t matter if he is or not , t’is beautiful. xxxxx

  3. beautiful and impressive poem, Holly

  4. There is a chill about this poem that is, truly, eerie. You used that word for one of mine, Holly, my word it applies to this one – I like it on so many different levels.

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