A weathered statue stands alone behind
the house I visit in my darker hours
A disregarded sacred space, now sours
in human trash and nature's daily grind.
My eyes hang behind natural blinds
That close the portal to my powers
wasted, mostly on unworthy hours;
no mind so kind as the one unassigned.

This weathered Jesus, heart and tongue and staff
of stone, now hid beneath the springtime snow.
No rest for the weary, no spring for the rest,
I hope one day to be that holy calf,
martyred too soon by the debts that I owe,
Ill matched with life, yet still afraid of death.