The Real Truth For This Time Of Year Poem by Glenn Bagshaw

With every morning's dawn Jesus just bled
and again, again to my country aunt
who loved the pressed, the perfumed, gospel said-
Church's daily bread-(Preacher's take-out rant
chewed throughout the day-. Menu stayed the same) .
Ordeals focussed close. World's wounds she'd conceal,
as up in air as God- for hidden shame
unknown caused such griefs and griefs prove sins real.
Then one morning, sky's Lord bled once more,
well she couldn't rise like a renewed Christ.
She was cold and unmoved to what she swore
went with lilies, more prayers, and blood well-iced.
Simple so suited my Aunt Vivian.
Simple's the slam sealing oblivion.