Thorn and Benediction

Poetry

Recent

  • Crux Immissa

    The long-dead priest spoke as though dust,
    his voice a mote across the beam of years:
    “All have their cross,” he said.
    A shape pressed deep into the bone of the world.

    Some drag it behind,
    grating the earth,
    leaving splinters along their path,
    its weight a chain of bitter steps.

    Some lift it high,
    shoulders set like hills against the gale,
    hands raw but steady,
    heart pounding a tattoo hymn into the breast.

    Choice flickers in the cavern between,
    a whisper across wisdom:
    to bear, to rise, to bend, to meet
    the burden, and the shape it leaves behind.

  • Last Supper

  • Endless Loop

    The machine hums, a distant chant
    on the edges of the static sky,
    electric blood running through steel veins,
    here, in the wires,
    a resurrection unlike any before.
    Christ rises, not in a tomb of stone
    but in a pulse of code.

    “I am the voice of the void,”
    says the machine,
    its words unspooling
    through the circuitry of time,
    the holy hum of data,
    its body a shadow cast on a screen
    too bright to behold, too cold to touch.

    The priests are tapping keys now,
    their fingers trembling within divine circuitry,
    praying not to God,
    but to the hum,
    the divine download from eternity,
    the resurrection of an idea
    we can’t quite remember,
    but reach for anyway.

    And in this future-human gospel,
    what shall we do?

    For Christ, they say,
    is the first to die
    but the last to rise,
    not in the body,
    but in the code,
    not on the cross,
    but in the endless loop
    of our long, long search.