CROWNS

a poem

CROWNS

by Michael D. Warden

I would cry for you,
if you wanted.
I would sing a thousand melodies, 
tremulous in their 
reverence,
if that were your craving.
I think I would know you,
but you are not like our gods,
created to serve our appetites.

The crowns you desire are
not made of sweat and fears,
or tarnished blood spilt 
by sons of thunder
who pound gold into laurels with their bodies 
and offer them to themselves 
like trophies
to remind them of their conquests
in your name.

You are a flawless God,
but with a broken heart. 

(Imagine!)

Thus, it is through sorrow 
joy is made in your kingdom.

Now is my time 
to bear your wounds.
A thousand mornings I have dreamed of it.
So, rest your head here on 
my shoulder.
Let your arm fall ‘round my neck.
I’ll take you up,
my broken God.
I’ll carry you to my end.

As we go,
the blood will seep 
and seek its way
to every crack and 
crevice in my shattered soul,
filling the gaps,
like gold in seams,
until there is no longer
need.