The Lonely Jesse Tree

These wretched ones, who never were alive,
went naked and were stung again, again
by horseflies and by wasps that circled them.
The insects streaked their faces with their blood,
which, mingled with their tears, fell at their feet,
where it was gathered up by sickening worms.
(Inf. III, 64-69)

Of course there is some symbolic freedom etched in all of us.
And of course I can break on through to the other side.

But I am still that trivial lagniappe,
The valley that rests between snow-kissed hilltops.
A slump.

There is a dilapidated sycamore,
Slanting against its brother.
Behind the bush, there is a phantom,
Bolting into murk as you draw nearer to one another.

Scars snake along the pavement where green women sprout.
They have little glass wings,
Fairy-tale things.
This gentle median is where I lay,
Sullen.

Painted harlots lure with a wild ride.
Beggars exclaim the gospel, broken teeth a twisted snide.
Underdogs slink the open streets, sleep in their eyes,
Fishing for another chance,
For another mate.

Dead sermons climb up a rebelled honor,
Along beetle-eaten bark peeling faintly.
Autumn is in distaste as winter blossoms.
The chill will put the preachers to rest,
Just as quickly as they stirred.

Beneath the grains of this scorched Earth,
A mighty Hell blooms in patient content.
Broken arbiters harvest nihilistic advents.
A hidden harbinger dwarfs the shadow of man.

And I am amidst all of this, a wicked regret.
I am the lazy saurian put to shame,
Basking in a secluded meadow,
Melting on sacred rocks,
Waiting in frozen equinox.

He who cannot command himself should obey.
And many can command themselves,
But much is still lacking before they can obey themselves.