The Spear
Distant smiling,
hopelessly believing, still.
I am longing,
Wearing my faith as a coat
In a storm of tears,
watery seepings,
smashing like crystal on
the child waiting,
wishing, weeping,
lazily expecting yet,
I am looking.
Wearing my soul as a face,
reflecting beauty, but never owning,
sacred seemings,
breaking like porcelain,
the young girl’s heart,
yearning, cursing,
naively enduring, always.
Hopelessly pretending,
the spear was never there,
that formed the wound.