Fawkes Wakes
Scrubbed Away,
Ungodly layer, after ungodly layer
Stripped to almost nothing but a name
Riddled with shame so vile, I shall not be named,
And I almost deserve it
(Do not fret, new ones are assigned
It is part of the process)
De-scaled and motionless I lay
He comes and licks my wounds into scars,
Mementos of pain bring outrageous courage in war
This hideousness too shall pass
I end and begin at the same moment, begotten from
Forgottenness, of that same material, but refined by
Fire, each visible and invisible fracture demands smashing and grinding
Into dust, Baptized again into that Sea, willingly marred in his hands
Once more, returned to the furnace, reborn, remade life
From death, pain from ruin, brilliance from oblivion
If the shaking of His majestic mane flings existence into being,
what can be made of his tears, his touch, his breath? His blood, his Death?
Power of this sort resides only in hands wounded from inception,
It seeps from his stripes, radiates from his bruising, bellows from his guttural groan
Nothing is safe from this falling and rising Stone
I am the beloved, the reason for such beauty and violence, yet flawed from conception
Self…aware, distracting, detracting, seeking but can not save
Yet, fused with brutalized Holy Rood, a cordial unbearably bitter for human tendencies
Restores us to rightful places, immortalizes our faces, no mere serfs are we
No indeed, we were made for Thrones, not graves
“Rise, son of Adam, Rise, daughter of Eve”
“Cair Paravel awaits your ascendency”
