On the dark Mount of

Olives, in a rain-jeweled

copse above the garden,

I removed my breastplate. I

unwound my belt. My robe I

dropped to the Golgothic

mud and stepped forward. I

planted my staff, good seed

or bad, a small bare tree of

sorrow, sweating blood. My

tunic I ripped in half and

draped defeated on the

staff. I took the weighty

gold band from my right

wrist and threw it far ahead

in the deeper gloom to

clatter soft in thick-leaved

branches near the empty

cave and stone. From my

left wrist I took the bright

silver band and lofted it

behind me where it fell

in silence like a spent mob.

My dust sandals I dunked

under the surface of a deep

moonlight puddle, mirror of

the world. I stood naked to

pure strike of lightning that

incandesced me into a final

altar holocaust, atomized stars

arching spasmodically into ashes

settling, an inedible manna,

sum of all, expiation and rest.


Photography by: Ramiro Pianarosa on Unsplash