The Lament

We're all like the 

Lament of Christ; Giotto 

couldn't even paint us this well,

he'd throw those voluminous cloaks 

over our grief to mask the lantern-

bright burn 

of such ungraceful humanity. 

There are a million ways to curb

the untidiness of it; filed neatly into 

church pews and chanting the prayers from 

another era of my life as I slip back into the 

familiar patterns of primary school;

any minute they shall rebuke me for a dream 

beneath the impassive gaze of The Virgin. 

In holier circles they have sobbing statues

beading blood and tears,

but for now it is me

and an empty guardian of 

frosted marble;

bathed in stained glass halos. 

The End

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