Blood on the Cross

i wear you as a crown

of thorns

which have been stripped

from the rose,

whose petals blow now

in the wind,

screaming through me

like the sound of your

voice in tandem with the growing,

agonizing, black hole;

its fat bloody fingers

sucking at yesterday,

and leaving tomorrow

to drown in the blood

that runs down the cross

like we ran from us

on that long, cold, dreary afternoon.