Constantine’s Cross-1

by Elvira

When it                       appeared

It                                 was

Cold,

Windy;

Clouds                         hung                heavy

                                                            Dark    with  moisture.

It                                 was                  dawn.

Supplications               were                the same

                                    Petitioning       for burdens

                                    To be removed,                       yet

                                    Knowing

The hand                     was                  still                  a fist.

For a brief second

                                    It shone,          like THAT

Crucifix                       suspended       at THAT chapel

                                    Would                         there be a favor?

It                                 was                  a holiday-somewhere

            With the yearly bacchanal

                                      Commencing

But, here, Now

                                    It was              a holy day

                                                Yet

None                           would believe             it

Protents                       don’t HAPPEN ANYMORE!

                                                So,

Nothing’s                    said.

                                    It’s called

                                                                        a phenomenon

                                                                        a happening

                                                                        an act of Nature

Eyes                            were cast down,                      then

                                    Lifted

And, it                         was gone.

In ancient times,

It                                 gave birth                    to         a

Form of worship:

Pagans                         were                put       to

Christian Swords…..

                                    undistinguished,  it

                                    Continues

For Dogma                  is                      a plague

Not easily                    destroyed

And,

Nations                                    fuse                 into doctrines

Executioners               become                        warriors,

Whose bogus               armour and bloodied hands,

The heart                     becomes                      a battlefield

Of religiocentric                                  credos,

                                    Exterminating

The nativity of                                                unconditional

            Acceptance,                                        by zelots

                                    Wrapped in Flags and Holy Books,

                                    Claiming to be

            One                 with

                                    The Devine

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