The Ritual of Cleansing

“Wound” – Syd Weedon, 2020

Cold rain that blows in my face, wash time from my eyes.
Clean the sadness from my gaze… sweep it all like dead leaves
in October’s howling wind – like God’s own awful broom.
Night falls in a soft gauze of mist… curse the brutal gloom.

There is a cleansing in water and a cleansing in blood.
This sin is too deep and the price is the endless red flood.
The innocent man dies in pain. It is for us that he atones.
The blood pours into the pavement, into the unforgiving stones.

A gentle soul recoils in horror. A kind soul cries out, “God forbid.”
This is the blood sacrament; the saving blessing of the damned.
“Accept this, our sacrifice.” Don’t hang that on me. I wasn’t there.
I’m just a pilgrim passing through, a lonely boy who tried to care.

Burn the sage and the lavender. Break the bread and spill the wine.
Cleanse this stain from our souls; wash this blight from our minds.
Sweep the floor clean. Wash your hair and your face, your eyes.
In the morning, in unknown daylight, in cleanliness, you rise.




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