Crucify Him Poem by Robert Combs

thru the ancient window
a fine spun blower's window pane
above the carrion winter courtyard
where my angels have gathered
to discuss my fate

‘crucify him’

then silence
as soft as a baby's whisper
the wind begins to rise
and white crows imperceptibly
shuffled onto the creamy midwestern snow
like flecks of coal
scattered Corvus beaks and toes
twinkling like diamonds
in the tonal inversion of twilight

‘crucify him’

and again my angels shudder
wings drawn and tied in silvery sash
gather kindling to preserve eternity's kiss
in a tender vase of ash
mixed with many oils and tints and hues
and sand to add the grit of age
and a sister's tears tainted
with shame and loss and rage
from portraiture a likeness weaved
glistening from the perfect grave

‘crucify him’

bent
broken
hollowed from the bone of life
opened to a sea of shimmering forgotten stars
laid aside at such a frail and delicate age
questioning why our mother no longer
needs me and why the angels never bleed
my fate decided and delivered
sorrow rewarded in this solacious tomb
battered by the remnants of conscience


‘crucify him’