Exorcise
I kneel before a white-robed priest,
Who sways his monstrance, almost fervently,
As if he sees what I see -
A story written by an intangible hand;
I kneel close to the murmuring priest,
Hoping, praying that the Lord's weapons will
Exorcise me of these dark, vile whispers.
Father into Your hand I commend
My bitter spirit, says my inner voice,
Though it is weak; battle-weary, almost,
Its presence all but completely transcient.
The invisible one pulls, tears from within,
His tears becoming tangible as my own,
Begging to be freed of this fleshy prison,
This mortal coil.
A naked sob sneaks past my lips
But I force it back -
My prisoner does not follow suit, though;
He perpetually cries out in weak, desperate defiance,
"Out of the depths I cry to You, O Lord!"
I press my hands against my ears
As before the oblivious priest I kneel,
Who knows nothing of my pain;
The prisoner still cries, as if to warn him;
Suddenly other cries and sycophantic whispers
Invade my heart and mind,
Becoming stages for a mutiny to be acted out -
Black corsairs climb aboard, cutlasses whirling;
They kill my crew and steal away
The vessel of my happiness.
"O Father!" I cry to the sky,
The sun shining down, draping me in a cloak of light
In spite of my sinner's uncleanliness,
"Father into Your hands I commend
My bitter spirit!" It is no longer the prisoner but
The prison-warden who desperately demands his freedom.
I face the angel Gabriel
Who stands still beside me,
Hoping for a smile but receiving
A glance of woe and sadness from obscenely empty eyes;
I seems they are pleading, pleading for
The tale, written by an intangible hand
To be ended some other way,
But I shake my head, believing
It can end no other way.
I close my eyes and step away from Gabriel's side,
And feel the fresh wind brush away the last of my tears;
I find myself praying, hoping, that it will be
Angels' wings that bear me toward Heaven.
M.T. 2004