My Cross

To this day,
I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature, reasonable fashion. Nevertheless, this
I only know far too well:
the more profoundly you love someone,
the more deeply you will weep, and the longer you will grieve,
when death finally renders you bereaved. Since my mother's passing,
followed shortly by the loss of my father,
my soul has been crucified every day,
my tears flowing like heavy droplets of blood from my wounded heart,
an ongoing pain, monumental, like pierced wrists and feet,
my hopes eviscerated, like the spear thrust into the side,
my mind overwhelmed with sorrow, like a bloody crown of thorns.
Every day, I am wrapped in the gossamer linen of my deepest memories,
gently placed inside the cold, dark tomb of forgotten dreams,
and sealed in with the heavy stone of finality,
only to be raised up yet again, released from that lonely prison,
and given another chance to live, to change, to heal, to hope, to dream, to believe,
to love.
Every day,
I carry the heavy cross that brings me to tears. And to this day,
I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature,
reasonable fashion.

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