Crucified

Who’s to say he was religious?
Why should he have been political?
Or trying to gain power?
He was simply a traveler following his spirit
To find himself judged and hung on a cross

It was a sunny day when the men came
With shackles, clubs and fear in their hearts
They hoisted his body upon the cross
But he did not cry out, or seem to mind
His face full of grace, he rose above it all

Nails pierced his hands
Spikes crushed his feet
Many wept, some cheered
Thorns punctured his scalp
A crown never asked for

There were others too, haunting the horizon with rotting crosses
Corpses flapping in the breeze
He spoke out, in search of a voice
Never getting any answer
Only the crack of bones surrendering to gravity

People came to visit him
He could see their eyes from his perch
He wondered how they could stand the smell
Dried blood, torture and death
Such a horrible aftertaste
Souring their breath and burning in their mouths and stories forever

There were days when he was alone
Sky blue and cold above swallowed his cries in vastness
Only the grass seemed to listen
He told the delicate green blades his dreams
Of travels far beyond

I know of a place, he’d say
Where people are friends with angels
There is peace without war
Love without condition
Life without fear

The grass only laughed in the breeze
For it had been trampled too many times
By merciless feet on the way to the grave
Trodden and stained blood red in times of war
The grass knew the pain of change

For him, the pain had gone away
Softly, quietly in the night
It floated upward to the cold, colorless moon
Leaving him empty, void of feeling
Crucified.