The Cry Poem by Richard Weissman

A cry for help echoes hollow AM streets,
The mathematics of despair,
Focus now.
Christ has risen,
Still the jade dragon bleeds out,
Insane - terrible to behold,
Ugly truth unfolds before veiled tears.
Christ is born.
Hope for the empty,
As prayers trickle down homeless backs.
Who can withstand it?
Who is that holy?
Blue saints - timeless, luminous to behold crying,
"Keep 'em moving... nine's near striking after all."
Christ in the manger and death on a needle.
And the third day he rose.
And the third portion of heaven opened.
And the third angel cried,
"It's Christmas time again."