Stricken One Poem by Peter Eliastam

Another’s agony, a mother’s pain
Is all conjecture, an enclosed domain.
Words cling claustrophobic to the brain.
We sigh for language that can bear the strain.

Or try to elevate, or craft, or write
Our darkest paper poems with white
Prognoses to illuminate the night,
By cultured arguments instead of Light.

And so we stumble at the Stumbling-Stone,
Where verse becomes perverse, it’s comfort-zone
More like a crafted camouflage and clone
Of other christs, while He remains alone.

His heart is mirrored in another place,
Wherein by tender touch and kind embrace,
Illiterates can read God’s words of grace
In fonts of pity on a human face.