The Cock Crows
Is like the crunch time -
there's desolation.
Judas would've stayed, his loyalty true,
but the same song was not being sung;
so no harmony.
Strength to go on after the cock crows -
where shall it come from?
Only the blood flowing and the spittle oozing and the water
running down the side may be the only way.
The thorns and the hammered nails pumps adrenalin.
But its not enough.
There's the need to know and accept that someone precious,
is waiting and awaiting great possibilities.
The cock is dead, a meal in the pot.
There's no more warnings and prophecies of doom.
Its purpose for life ended with tongue sticking out.
The smell of spices linger in the air -
from the pot and through the shroud.
Who can I lean on here?
I was invited as a brother but the shoulder is weak.
The earth tilts at an angle by design and winter follows fall.
The hungry unsated mouth is ever open,
to eat and eat and eat.
Even that precious and rare gem is ...
running away.
Solitude.
Who will come back?
The hurt, the pain the turmoil,
lingers.
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