The Great Martyr
By Christopher Caldwell
I do not fight for what is mine.
I do not yell.
I greet atrocity with silence.
I am the great weeper, I am the sorrow-keeper.
A marble statue with open wounds.
A fresco with real salt tears,
A living wonder,
I have been cut by shards of dreams
I have been wounded by charity's sharp edge
I have been stung, slashed, scourged by love.
The scars are always fresh.
My silence is a conspirator.
Agony unheard, Unheeded.
My lips mouth the words but no voice comes.
I am a conspirator
Trace me beneath my map of scars.
There may still be living tissue
Take my hand,
Rusty nails and all
Clothe me with your lies,
And I shall bleed for you, too