we struggle to understand
pull our hands from the nails
begin roaming the dusty roads

blood oozes plop plops
into dirt as we trudge onward
like soldiers stunned from battle

our parched throats rasp out
the single question of why this?
is there a reason we can believe?

why did we suffer this long
and so horribly to awaken
when our sacrifice was not wanted?

what illusion of self demanded
death rather than be lessened
when enfolded by the beloved?

yet always our freedom was here
an invitation we never realized
had merely to be sliced open

©John Greenleaf-Maple – text and art