POEM: These Tombstones Cry Out

Hobbling toward your cross, among shouts,

You said 'If they do not praise me, these stones will cry out."

I question, "But honestly, really, would they?"

That sounds like another exaggeration you would say,

like "you can move mountains," or "do greater things than these."

Ones that make me wonder if it gives pause to anyone but me.

As I hobble

to believe

in you,

It feels like you

turn your back

on me

as you say,

"Let's just see

if you can still

believe in me

after I

say this."

But...

I found out today tombstones could be seen from your strides.

And tombstones broke open when you died.

Perhaps when praising mouths fell shut as you fell limp,

these stones cried out, choirs of cracking flint.

And not only stones, but rattling bones took in gasps,

And cried out hosanna, the king comes at last.

...

Sometimes I wonder if the pause, is a briefly cracked door.

And your back turning is inviting me to more

"Let's just see what you can be

when you follow me..."

To where not only the greatest exaggerations are true,

But true in ways that are phenomenally new.