10th July, 2012

SKIE PETERSON

The second man,
was formed of heaven,
to look at him
seemed at first of little consequence,
just another ruddy face in the crowd,
he still laughed,
cried, he still bled.
there were no stars encircling his crown,
no angels holding his feet off the ground,
nothing apparent distinguishing him from the fray.
yet.
the nearer, closer you came,
the more your heart was changed.
somehow when he was near
stars encircled your crown,
all of a sudden
you could feel angels holding your feet off the ground,
something deep within you began to swell, to roll.
a grave stone.
a resurrection.
an hour to rise defeats the moment to slink.
continents of light beneath your tired eyelids,
hope sticks to the housewives broom like magnetic sunlight.
the soldier cupped a silver ball where previously he'd perceived only clay.
the child in the corner finds himself bundled in warm yarn before it had been steel confines.
here he comes,
now to renew your mind.
he found your being, from the beginning,
carved his name upon your chest,
with a golden blade
an equipage of amber,
led you towards the east,
led you all the way home.

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