Jun 2019
The air is thin. To begin
again, I must breathe. My head
is wreathed with thorns. I hear
celestial horns calling my ascension.
I must rise above this dissension. I
must put aside the flood of memories
that endear me. Blood drips from my
side where you spread me. I must
wipe the wound clean. I must flush
the meanness from my soul, to make
me heal, to make whole again.
My sins I repent; I am spent.
O Holy Host, deliver me:
forgive her, forgive me.
Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks
again, I must breathe. My head
is wreathed with thorns. I hear
celestial horns calling my ascension.
I must rise above this dissension. I
must put aside the flood of memories
that endear me. Blood drips from my
side where you spread me. I must
wipe the wound clean. I must flush
the meanness from my soul, to make
me heal, to make whole again.
My sins I repent; I am spent.
O Holy Host, deliver me:
forgive her, forgive me.
Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.
(79/M/Boulder, CO)
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