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At Sad Tidings In Jerusalem
Waking, late morning, on that worst of days;
besotted, once again, from your bad choices,
you thought you might have heard loud, frenzied voices,
or seen harsh, violet figures in dim haze.
Your body ached as you fell back and groaned,
lying uncomfortably upon the bed;
your pulse like throbbing anguish in your head---
the aftermath that follows each hard need
to chase the dragon in the poppy's seed.
A friend arrives, breathless, hysteric even:
she screams that Pharisees have taken Stephen
out to the killing field: the one, real, man
who loved you in your life's soon shortened span---
martyred alone, while you were snoring, stoned.
Starward
[jlc]
