I was born in penance,
stitched by hands that feared God
more than man.
Ash and silence marked the streets
as I walked above bowed heads,
my own veiled in shame,
not pride.
They called me capirote,
a crown for the contrite,
my point rising
not in power,
but in prayer.
But oceans churn,
and centuries warp cloth
as easily as memory.
They took my shape
and bled it white,
cut holes to see
without being seen.
They gave me fire
instead of incense,
fear instead of faith.
Now when I appear,
no one weeps for their sins —
only for the harm I promise.
I did not choose this lineage.
I was made holy,
then made monstrous.
Not all inheritance
is willing.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: November 1st, 2025 07:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Rocky Lagou
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Comments2
This is a haunting and dark write that speaks through metaphor where it is heard deep inside the soul. It is a fearful write and a fave
Honestly the title of this poem is an amazing setting stage for the rest of it. It’s the perfect thesis and grants me more clarity while reading. Our futures are predestined, and some are more privileged than others. It’s sad but the harsh reality. Wonderfully written.
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