The Stations Of The Cross. Poem by john o'connell

the Stations of the Cross.

the exact number gets more difficult to remember -
be it ten, fourteen or just two.

been born could have been one
in the light of a dying sun.

where hope begun and tragedy too -
the whirlpool of being.

a million times freezing
in the silence of every impending threat of death.

the why of it all!
I am innocent...

I want to play
but that is not easy.
I keep falling down.

a dissapointment to those
who encourage me most -
maybe, we have always been too close
to untangle our differnt wires.

there is safety in distance
and more in death.

exile is a stopgap
and not a remedy.

let the occassional breakdown
and loss of faith take their toll.
let every small death aid us to scream
silently and endlessly
into the eternal reaches of the night.