By Scott Campbell
I knelt before the winged red mass,
It whispered; you were a friend?
Yes, to many
With the cruel vigour of an addict
And you gave more than you received?
Yes, so much
I burdened others the best I could
And you were a shoulder wept on?
Yes, often
Half of my pains are borrowed,
and the other half, in the water
And you took no life?
No, many
I stole too, and smothered hopes
You were honest?
No, I dealt in halves, and lived in clouds
You did not covet?
No, I carved effigies of swift success,
and sold them down the town square,
In the lull, I raised my head and said,
“All of these,
I already, always, was”
I knew the same of my friends
So, when the mass did not ask about forgiveness
That howling prostrated compassion
the unrequited acceptance of the hurricane, and the harvest
I knew, I could pass
A higher
Judgement