No depth of love, no grace of forgiveness
will ever alter the look on his face, the
expression burned into the marrow of
my memory.

When he turned to me, even before the
last note of the rooster's cry, there was
no frown of anger.  Disappointment did
not register in his eyes, nor the reproof
of one superior to the other.

He simply gazed upon my trembling 
shame as I stumbled, trying to
run into the darkness of 
my betrayal.

The passing years have not healed the
wound in my heart.  I bear it, even
though I know his love is without limit
and his mercy restores life.

Perhaps I need this dark memory
in order to live his life in place
of my own.  The light is 
so much brighter when held
against the darkness.

I carry my shame, not as a badge
of self-pity, but as an offering
I place at his feet each day, an
assurance for my soul that as I
am loved, so must I love.
As I have been seen, so must I see.

My penance exacts a heavy price,
made bearable by a tomb that
no stone can close.




  • aDarkerMind

    a true write of art, and a pleasure to read.

    • DesertWords

      Thank you very much

    • heatherbee

      Lovely to read great sense of words

      • DesertWords

        I appreciate your comment

      • A.H. Browning


        • DesertWords

          Appreciate the encouragement

        • Goddess of the Mist

          Amazing poem - full of so much meaning!

          • DesertWords

            Thank you very much for your comment

          • Goldfinch60

            Good write with very meaningful words.


            • DesertWords

              Thanks, Andy, for your comment.

            • L. B. Mek

              wonderful imagery and depth of vulnerability
              a good write
              (thank you for inspiring my little reply)..
              'though if a tomb remains open
              however drained the occupant and rendered incapable
              of self-salvaging feats of escape
              hope remains, someone may choose to play the hero
              and revive, what limitless treasure
              is still left to salvage, in your poetry's pulsing beacon
              even if that someone
              is a mirror's reflection of belated: self-worth realisation'

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