Blasphemy,
He had a whole page
Of facts about me--
An entire biography
I had written myself
From blabbering.
But when I set down
To write his,
Only a name
Was scrawled in ink--
Kind words? A bright face?
But what did he look like
When the moon only shone
On glass fragments,
And the air turned dark
From the absence of voices?
I saw Jesus in his heart;
He spread his abounding love
By simply talking with those
Who were looked down upon.
But besides his acts from afar,
What do I know that he has told me
In hushed, timbre tones,
Sober with intentionality?
Shame-faced, I think
“Nothing.”