Good Friday

Or... do not close your eyes.

Photo by Wim van 't Einde on Unsplash

In hush of blood, on splintered wood I lie,
No easy breath escapes these tortured lungs.
The world shrinks dim, a canvas painted dry,
Where once I chased the lark on vibrant tongues.

"Father," I rasp, a whisper on the breeze,
A final plea before the endless night.
No crown of thorns, no earthly victories,
Just weary…