Dead leaves from the gutter
in a pile on the driveway.
They are drying in the sunlight.
They are waiting to be burned,
when their verdant veins turn brittle
and the memory of their branches
is as withered as your faith in God
and hollywood romances.
The pendant that she gave you
to wear around your neck,
now the same color of decay
as the debris out in the driveway,
left a ring of copper-green
on the skin above your sternum,
and you tried to wash it off
but it’s a deeper kind of burden.
So curse the fates all you want to.
That won’t fill that hole inside you.
Wake up sleeper. Don’t be afraid to be alone.
You’re not alone.
So now you tell yourself at night
you’ll be wiser when you’re older,
but now you’d forsake the Kingdom
for a kiss upon her shoulder,
and you try to think of Jesus
but the only thing that comes
is the way she felt in summer
like a teardrop in the sun.
Some say He was a wise man
or just another martyr
who took the easy way around
getting out of bed tomorrow.
You don’t need to understand
why He was thinking of you,
with every nail, with every wound,
why He was crying out with you,
but He was.
So storm the gates all you want to.
That won’t fill that hole inside you.
Rise up hangman. Take a deep breath.
O, how we’ve missed you.
Every time we die and come back to life
our roots run deeper, our fruit tastes sweeter.
We bear new seeds from times of need
most painfully redeemed.
You’ll see.
Samuel Lockridge, Hangman, from the album When I Rise.