Washed

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I was crimson but cold,
Cannonballs coursing
Through veins
In a vapid hell
With the ticking
Of nature’s clock
Haunting the inmates
Until the appointed hour
When they will burn endlessly.
I was crimson but cold,
Pretending to be bold
In a hornet’s nest,
Stingers pointed
In my direction.
They know who belongs
And who does not.

White hot rage
Dripping from a viper’s fangs
Waiting to dig into shallow skin
Caught me with wide eyes
At the page of my escape,
The slippery serpent
From a primordial past,
Seeking to outlast
The last of us.
But the Author of us all
Has written the last page.
We are simply playing it out,
Whether in faith or in doubt.
And that great Author
Washed my crimson clean,
Warmed my frozen body
In a river of the living.

The pool of the dead
Is where the serpent lies,
Seeking out its prey
On the living fields.
I have not reached
That golden road,
But so it’s been told
I surely will.
But the serpent is always
Hot on the heels,
Waiting to make deals
In darkened rooms.
Yet, even the light
Breaks the secret dark,
And serves as armor
For the living.