Good Friday

The crimson spiderwebs trace across your skin
from the springs of hot wounds
to gather and stream in rivulets.
The capillary tendrils joining,
gaining momentum, flowing
with greater certainty
down. To meet in this heavy drop,
and then, to hesitate.

Poised, steady, for a moment frozen,
at the threshold of eternity, hanging
between heaven and earth,
as gathered angels weep hidden, burning tears.

To fall, finally,

our ransom,

upon the cursed ground.

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