A mockery…

The morning sun rises

then sets.

Time moves…

the hour gets closer.

People continue

with their

regular day–

herding goats

preparing food,

scolding children,

beating laundry

gathering water…

Inside the

city walls

crowds are

bustling…

Yet

someplace

there is

a person,

sitting quiet.

An old man perhaps?

A servant,

questioning in silence,

as they do

this

strange job?

They cautiously

carefully

weave

over

and under

and over

and under

the thorny vines,

as they

bleed.

This crude crown

will scoff

the one who

wears it…

What

are they thinking

while doing

this task?

 

It is finished.

 

Where is it placed

to wait

for that

cruel mockery…

 

 

I made one.

I

bled.

How strange it looks

sitting on

things…

important?

Things

 

As

the hour

gets closer,

I wish

there

was some

other way…