Sometimes I wake from sleep a prisoner
of my past. No matter amends made, no
matter decades dissolved, ancient pictures
of my fear-laden crime scenes appear so
clear, in such sudden motion sweat covers
my face and frame, the entire room it seems
perspiring in shame, those bruised old lovers
and eternal loved ones lined in long streams
around my scaffold, growling my misdeeds,
calling not for my execution, but
to live, kneel and await the cleansing seed
of light that appears and covers night just
after kneeling. Awake, what’s left but pray
again for healing. And await the day…
Roger Armbrust
July 12, 2020
