Last year’s thoughts for this year’s Holy Week.
I see you, eyes cast down in pocked and weathered faces,
cheeks sunken from polishing what could never shine.
Your overseers, harsh and bloated with their assumed fame
cast a sneering glance, a gaping maw of greed,
lusting for lust’s sake, all in the name of (g)od.
I sat at your tables, supping with your sons, your daughters.
I touched your withered, your lonely and broken castaways.
I drank of wine, once pulled from a well, but
unsatisfying for those who just wanted
to celebrate a little longer.
Yesterday, the smallest steed walked on branches and twigs
heedless of the hypocrisy, of misunderstanding, of misapprehension.
Those same roadway gifts will soon be yanked away
in favor of heavier trees and a few nails.
Oh, how you would have been better to keep your coats,
to water your palms, to soak your dirt-worn feet
than to waste such extravagance on a lie.
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