Tenebrae
 |
| B. Hartless |
Shades,
shadows of the night,
All the dark
creeping things shiver out
From the dank
spaces of their secret lives
And whisper
in the glooming,
Seeking prey,
savage, shrunken gripped.
Dry ground,
and gravel shredding skin
Watered by the
tears of torment,
And by blood-like
sweat,
Not of hard
exertion,
But
intensity of prayer.
Letting go,
acceptance,
Stings and bites
the soul.
Only a single
candle waits awake,
While death’s
cup fills.
B.I.
Hartless
Holy week 2020
