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
