Of Ends


Are there ends to our forgiveness?

Ends we don’t see until we reach them.

Deceit, betrayal, violence.

Can we spot them before our very bones are broken upon them,

our better selves tumbling over the edge of the world?

Asked what the Resurrection means to me,

I said, The end is never the End.

French films and fairytales

have led us to believe there ever was an end,

that no tension existed between happily ever after

and the end, that they didn’t both fight to be true.

As lent comes to its close in darkness and dazzling light,

the flood gates loosed, death losing its sting – again,

are we not left soaked and stung

eyes searching a horizon we cannot see

as clouds surround the city?

And him, his eyes sewn shut by a self-consuming nervous system,

an unreliable heart, lungs collapsed into brown paper bags, can he?

Can he forgive?

The cult fueled rage that burned her down and left only glass,

brittle and sharp, upon which he fell

and broke?

And the demons that built the cross,

sewed their flesh into its sinews,

afraid to decay in graves they themselves had dug,

can they?

Forgive that nothing was finished.

Even I, afraid my own mind

too fragile to bend,

will gradually arc and endlessly splinter,

have I hemmed in my forgiveness as well?

Dammed up life with trees I myself have felled

prevented the inevitable waters from tumbling forward,

afraid the edge will betray another curve,

arriving at the horizon

just in time to witness the sun disappear

behind yet another mirror,

afraid the waiting,

cell upon cell, the scabbing

that builds islands of lava streams

that I, flesh and bone, bricks and mortar, spit and mud,

will leave myself

can leave myself

to be fashioned, scrubbed and remade new?

To acknowledge

the complete and utter fallacy

of ends.


2 responses to “Of Ends

  1. I love this message.

  2. I’ve done some paintings in the same vein, the ugly side of religion that incites violence…nice to see your stuff. Thanks!

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