Feast of All Saints

Feast of All Saints

If you are a gift
From God to me,
Then why am I tortured
By the mere sight of you?

You've torn my soul;
Scattered it to the winds;
And though I have sought,
And found,
And fought to rebuild it,
There are holes
That I can't seem to fill.

Have YOU taken hold
Of the missing fragments?
If so, I must have them back...

Standing accused,
You shade your eyes,
Veil your thoughts,
And close your door softly
But firmly.

There are no answers here
To be had.

Oh willow, my willow,
How can it be
That I'm to be crucified
On thee?


C.P. Warner
4 November 1991