Dark splats cover the head,

Driven insane by death and doubt.

Blood drips from heavy hands,

Weighed down by worry and despair.

A coat lays on the shoulders

Of a man trapped in a recording

That repeats over and over again.

There is no escape for an obsessed man.

Polite words crawl out of his mouth.

He is eager to please, eager to end

The shameful suffering of those

Cooped up inside the temple.

Where can we go? They cry.

When will it all end? They whisper.

To submerge in the holy water

Is the dream of my home,

And of my people.

To be washed clean

Of this heaviness,

Of this trauma,

Of this unclean spirit.

Free me now!

Have mercy!

Please, have mercy.

Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger

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