Lifted

He was elevated.
It was not for the purposes of admiration or acclaim;
a strange glorification.

The crudely fashioned wooden platform
is no pedestal.
What, then, shall we call it,

this instrument of shame and death;
conveniently named for its shape
rather than its purpose? No matter,

the two have been conflated
over the millennia.
There is, however, no convenience in death.

No, that is not true.
It is all a matter
of where you are standing.

Lifted from the earth,
three metres, four at the most,
anchored to earth’s rocks and dust

not by nails driven cruelly into timber,
but by cords;
willing ribbons of love.

© Ken Rookes 2015.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s