The Stones Burned Patterns

 

The Stones Burned Patterns

(“You see, everyone will be salted with fire.” Mark 9:49)

I have stepped where the stones burned patterns on the soles of my feet.
When I walked where answers were easy the callouses fell off
and my mind went soft.

 

Some believe I built too good a throne
and at this point farther down the road
I am inclined to agree. Though I miss the descants
the minstrels used to sing.

 

From there it was a briny bog, brackish near the dusk
when people tried to eat the sun. All I wanted was a chance
to hear the songs again that pointed me back home.

I have wept over wounds I’ve inflicted,
would have amputated my hands, my feet, my eyes
to change the misdirection and spirals my aspirational
slipups caused.

I am wounded too, sometimes rubbed with salt
by ones who remember more than they know.

Who can blame them? Out of control, the fire burned
invisible welts from house to house, from soul to soul.

I have wept where the days turned scattered light into prism colors.
When I cried the colors bled. I am held by the blazing eyes
of the One who purifies all with a single gaze.