As the mourning dove
clasps the branches
of a barren fig tree,
his fingers fold tighter,
tighter around my own.
Heavy were his sighs,
weary was his smile,
with his gaze
fine-tuned
as the universe.
He spoke with the piety
of a schema monk,
the passion of a lion.
His words were gold
and chrysolite,
and built palaces
upon Mount Zion.
A soul of glass,
both stained
and blameless,
as black
and white
as onyx.
Sweat drops
to the floor,
it pounds,
his face bare
from the blare
of seven trumpets.
Lo, he hopes,
“Come home,”
he mouths,
his eyes so still
and stolid.
But, oh, I know
his heart
is cold,
and dry,
and grey,
and ashes.
--Alyosha Kartashov, 01/04/2025
Theme : Self, Others -- "Religious"