Treasure Island

Brian P FitzGerald


Under the Market Cross


A murky mist now grips my brain.
My thoughts, they reel in mire so chilling;
My eyes see nothing but driving rain;
Despair is such, no hope instilling.

In abject grief, on pillar I lean;
Those I knew, now know me not,
I'm now a part of life's unclean,
In lonely squalor I exist and rot.

People pass, heads bowed low,
Thoughtless, complacent and unaware
Of those who lie in anguish, tho'
Cold and bloody, in despair.

Declared unclean, hated, abused;
Despised and broken, and rejected I be;
Spat upon, cursed, punched and bruised,
Forsaken by all - no longer free.

I try to forgive, so difficult I know,
Battered and mugged, no life held dear,
I lie so cold, no future now?
I'm left to bleed with death so near.

To bring the Word to them I strove
For them it was I lived and died
For them it was for truth I drove
For them it was I cried

For them I prayed, this I vow;
For them I gave my life my all.
Forsake me not! Hear me now!
In you I trust, hear my call.

Am I forsaken? - my heart-felt cry;
Forgive; they know not what they do;
In you I trust! death defy!
My life in death I offer you.

****

Early hours in the Market place
Upon the cross a body bared -
A corpse, unkempt, with bloody face;
The crowd, so curious, stood and stared.

(Beverley, UK,16 April 2014)

Submitted: Thursday, June 19, 2014

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Topic(s): spiritual

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

This poem was written after Easter 2014, at a time of making contact with some homeless friends in the town centre. The Market Cross is a dominant architectural feature in this small market town in East Yorksire

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