Umbriate Press Poetry

My life interferes with its living.

This some would consider treachery, but I know who pulls the strings and who forgives the criminal his crimes.

Nearer to the last station of the cross, here is where most weeping happens, now that harshness enters hearts and onlookers finally witness the end, finally get their moneys worth of the other dying.

No matter how agile prayers, none can save when the halo of death hovers above the head while the thumping hammers run the timbers into rocky ground.

The work is too difficult not to expect a joy equal to its toil.