she hated her old name so much

that she willingly nailed it to the

tree of tradition, having no idea

of why she gave up on her own dreams

for the sake of another, to protect the family honor,

 
after all this time she nev'r got used to

the sting of perforated pricks

in a twisted crown of guilded thorns

that set upon her brow, for each

thorn reminds her that it pays to feel

possessed by someone who can do for you

better than you can for yourself;

so difficult to ignore the forces of commitment

 

. . .and having assessed the years

of the times in sorrow and regret,

she pushes up from the spike of

promise that renders her feet

immobile, and in angst,

inhales one more time,

a day in the life of the family foundation of

"I do" and suffocates 

 
now you may call this woman weak, but in her world

in the world of as-things-should-be,

she knew long ago that love is not always

a many splendor'd thing, but closer to  

a dead-heat marathon where

breath is always in short supply,

and she accepts and pays the debt

of this, her suicidal love,

 
it is the kind of love that is carried over

by the pounding spike of unforgiveness,

the kind of love that rips away

at the core of  hands designed for duty,

hands that forgot to pray for an answer,

now wringing wet with perpiration of regret,

wishing they had not accepted the proposal

of the beginnings of love that The Father

never approved.


her love is pinned to this crucifix of sacrifice

guilt for letting go too soon

bears down extremely hard

as the rope burns cut her skin from

twine-wrapped shoulders

hanging by re-threaded hope,

her mistaken bridal identity--


and after all this time,

the burden of her cross never eases.


© 2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed
all reserved.