The sun rises in the east

sky purple announces his arrival,

a new life offered

to the weary and broken

as the blind see

and lame walk.

The curtain is torn

as we enter into the presence 

of the light 

that shines and warms

the souls of those who have died.


The Voice

The Voice
The voice on the wind

whispers its intent, 

the cold penetrates into the core

the will is broken down

into its finite parts.

It speaks of our mortality,

as the trees bud green,

shoots of green breaking through

the cold, dark earth.

In the stillness a word 

is spoken, through lips

cracked by the sun. 

On its breath, 

the smell of stale wine

give hint to its power 

to offer peace.

Bodies frozen by fear

as a finger probes the bloody mark,

And doubts wash away

at the sound of the voice.