Perforated stigmata, the Ruby stream
Erosion to weather the cliff-face
I had to crucify you.

There was no other way
Mountainous insurmountability
My liability

I wash clean,
My hands
Of the deed and

Of absolution,
That, in chasing seemed so
Attainable; cliff edge - invisible

Void, chasm, crevasse.
So you stand on the chalk
Cliff-face, shackled like Andromeda

Time to let go, O, bloody scarecrow
Where is your cornfield now?
The ocean is your cornfield now

Atlantic inkwell, rapturous vortex
A black wave threatening collision,
On careful inspection -

Too cold! Too cold! Horrid, gelid pool
Though not a bad place to die, Frigid
And glassy, none too serene

But it’ll do, it’ll do.
Ay, me! Your face is too cold, dear!
Chin up, chin up! Face the hoary cirrus!

You are no son of God
O, son of the Father, I have killed you
with treacherous hands of mine.

Washed and washed of this
Yet here’s a spot -
Where has your crown gone?

Ha! Of course, it rests on my head now,
Thorny and steeped with virginal blood
My Saturnian kingdom of gore.

I had hoped your death
Would absolve the sin…
A foolish thought.

Father Time devours
Now I am Cronus anew
Zeus, Christ! O, child

Young and drunk with youth’s song
The melodious fountain
It is somewhere here, I’m sure

Misplaced, like - My crown!
Where is it? I would check my head
But the mirror crack'd

Bloody hands make light work
Of a carpenter’s son.
An envious shard slipped, pomegranate flush.

To seal the cracks in the mirror
I had to seal you to the cliff-face
Poor, poor child.

But, Christ! What of you?
Had you lips to speak
Or hands to sign

Child, do not speak,
I know what you would say to me.
O, do not speak!

“You ruined my life”
It never was
“I’ll never be you”

It’s too late for that, child
“Did I have to die?”
So I can live

And so you could survive
I don’t want you to fear
The choice was mine alone.

I couldn’t speak that lie,
Truly do or die
And better you than we

But you have to admit, there’s
Some grace to this
I’m kinder than that escape rope

Tied around your waist
To pull you from the asphalt river
And the skidding streams.

I’ve preached to you for long enough
Youthful homunculus
Child pretending

It’s time to let you rest, you were strong
longer than I, but that’s all over now
rest your thorn-pierced head.

No more preaching for you, dear
No more hiding from Roman mobs
I pray that you can

Resurrect the time that
I have killed.
I have killed.