DUST AND BLOOD
He was weary. We´d seen signs of it before.
In the middle of that red afternoon
The birds were dark,
No sign of white doves anywhere.
No sign of holiness of any kind, in fact.
He was made up to enact what all of us knew came next.
Of course all that red was blood, and it was everywhere.
This had happened before.
Friendly to all of us, cheerful, even, he labored with his burden slowly
(It was said someone helped but I doubt it. We were all too scared).
I wanted to scream, to shatter the day with my own agony
But such vanity always is better on paper
And now I write the story far away from all the dust and blood.
Then my child crawled up next to me and wondered
“What comes next?”
I smiled and gave an answer I knew absolutely untrue.
Except for the part about the sky growing dark inside each of us
Every time we look away.