Sizzling trees scatter their leaves
along a sun-burnt road, lined with
squinting soldiers, draped in metal,
their muddy sweat-beads dripping
on infant spectators too young to know.
This is not a usual Friday
where cheers
would choke overcrowded inns and dusty playgrounds;
Just
a sea of silence
and shuffling shoulders,
and shiny black crows slicing the air in search for bread.
Even as He anguished it didn't show
For all you'd see is His soaking robe
bleached in Royal red and the occasional
petal clinging for its dear life from that saving Rose.
Too many times He did, falling on merciless stones
as the people wailed and wondered why
no one
would raise Him up.
But those who tried were only held back
like tears that dried on faithless eyes.

You could see in the distant storm
Water starting to fall
to wash the earth free of its sickly grime.
For now, it was like an illusion
A mirage of hope
as He continued carrying a Cross He grew to own.

A Father
A Spirit
A whisper
"I love you."

Though time kept on, it might as well have stood still
for the road was longer than what
the wind had travelled
to join the blessed whose
lives would see
the only Passion
there could ever be.