Plighted

He coldly observes, distant and loathing,

As the Wretch writhes on the floor.

It stares back, guileless, maw agape with terror and depthless pain;

It knows not why it festers and lies;

It knows not where it lashes and tears;

His patience frays, taut against the weight of grief.

Molten with feverish agony, entwined with the tapestry of his being.

Born from cauterised wounds, unspoken, unhealed.

He is it;            It is he,

With quiet acceptance, his gaze waters and swells.

Perhaps a delicate miracle can yet be distilled

From the rancour of his heart?

One…two…

With meditative breaths, his eyes softly close…

…A remedial forgiveness,

Nascent and yearning,

Pleading for kindness and visceral renewal…

…Imbued with tenderness,

Soft and unyielding,

To soothe what remains of this lowly, febrile sorrow…

Once more…two breaths…

…

…Caught in the cradle of his embrace, the Wretch quivers and howls

Through the warmth of his core,

Nursing the vestiges

Of a memory, cleansing and pure.

He whispers:

“I shall hold you, unbroken and resolute,

the anchor and weight of my heart,

through the shadow of every barren winter,

until spring comes again.”