Reading Time: 3 minutes
One morning comes. Eyes stay blinded to a brand new day.
Brain begins boot routine, losing the threads of dreams,
Connecting the strands of consciousness to the forefront
As blood runs cold… The thump of adrenaline hits...
Sickens the stomach and churns the wrenching gut inside…
This morning has come. Did prayer fall on deaf ears?
Were wishes lost, scattered to the bloodstained dusty floor?
Were the pleadings unbalanced against unjust law?

The food comes. Mouth opens, but the throat gags at the thought.
No words are said. The ears hear hardened clomping boots
Connecting with the stone. The chest prodded by a plate.
A grunt in some foreign twang, and footsteps recede.
Rapid hands lower a platter to the floor in haste
Then seek to staunch the flow of unseen clear vomit.
Desperate synapses flood the brain with endorphin
Struggling to gain control of a shattering shell.

The water comes. Lips suck, anxious to wet a tarnished tongue.
Hands shake. Water trickles down an innocent chin
Connecting childhood with these imprisoned adult hours.
Gunshots in the distance bring out the slightest hope...
Then just the heavy thumping beat of a fearful heart, and
The rasp of a coarse blindfold across covered ears.
Thoughts fleet to and fro through dear long lost living patterns:
A wife. A family. A home. Some warm comfort.

A captor comes. Rough hands hoist the trembling frame to stand.
A warm trickle snakes down a cold thigh. No control.
Connecting, convulsive, esophageal surge aborts.
One more silent prayer leaks into the ether.
The walking stops, and unknown voices ignore this soul,
This father, this husband, this child, this frail life force.
Inevitability. The real culmination
Is recognised, and the spirit stills the body.

The moment comes. Is bent towards the floor on sore knees.
The prayer comes. The long tremulous dialect sings.
Connecting thoughts; eons of time filled with phantoms scenes.
The blow comes. It is short and blunt and doesn’t hurt.
The blood comes. Squirting purposelessly into dead air.
The sound comes. It resonates – not to severed ears.
The end comes. On far off soil a beauteous flower
Unfolds its gentle petals to face a golden sun.

The moment comes. The ax man feels the chilly Karma
Heavy on his heart. Chaos enters memory
Connecting awful sights with awful sounds, awfully.
Eyes show the burning need to cleanse away the sight,
Oscillating from side to side to avoid the truth…
Laying soiled, but triumphant in termination.
Still. Calm. Unconcerned. Spirit rises on silver chords
Trailing behind the long awaited son’s return.

The piercing gaze: of perpetual gentility…
The loving: the understanding hand on shoulder…
Connecting: happiness; the friendliness; loving folk…
The understanding: no hate; no guilt; no wrong; just love…
The feeding: chocolate drizzles on thick clotted cream…
The smoothing: coloured swathes of cloud softly caress…
The memory... Lives. Years. Ages. Tribes. Races. Friends. Kisses…
The purpose: pure, advancing, never ending, life…

And finally... communion.

© Allen Ansell 2005, 2012, 2023