Are You the One Who was to Come?

My apologies for not writing for the last couple days. I have been sick, it was Thanksgiving, and I broke my computer. I’ve fixed it now. Here is an especially long poem for not having written one since Wednesday.

This, the pointless tip of an
ever-strange life, though
in deprivation of food and water,
I may continue, and even in darkness,
though it is unceasingly constant,
save the short hours in which
grayness seeps through the cracks
of a boarded up window, is prison.
Here I am to remain,
for whatever duration of my life
is left to the world I have fought for
and this is how I find the continuing
or ending of my life
so impossible:
this world I have fought for,
the ruin around me, blank, lifeless eyes,
whose desperate comings and goings cry,
no, thunderously roar for a new way.
Am I to let this long journey go?
Now, I am despaired.

Yet, in whispered excitement
I hear the news of another,
One who does what I never could,
Whose every movement seems to restore
this life that I have struggled for.
And every story incites a flame
that whispers softly of the nature of hope.
Though all I see is darkness,
Light begins to take breath in me.

This much I must say,
Send this message, good friends,
noble souls, who risk this night
to bring my dim eyes sight,
“Are you the one who was to come,
the one whose long-foretold arrival
has nearly passed from all’s memories,
whose sandals I am not fit to touch,
or shall I expect another?”
Make haste, and tell what he says,
so I may better hope for the dawn.

Again and again my soul demands,
as hours pass their indistinguishable minutes,
the answer to my plea.
Though in patience I struggle to remain,
I pace and pause and pound fists.
Oh cousin! Are you the one who was to come?
I imagine his voice, his face,
and dare to see a simple nod,
but all anticipation, my head it wearies
and I sleep fast through the hours.

Again, upon waking, a conference
of whispered response,
The words I cannot make out.
“Go back, report what you hear and see.
Even the dead are given life.”
This is strange indeed!
“Blessed is he who does not fall away
on account of me.”
Oh, this is not the news I seek.
This is the response I am to receive?
What torture now I have.
So this hope is for a world
now bathed in light, rejoicing for the sun.
Am I to remain here in darkness,
and of happiness, find none?
Never seeing the life and light of freedom,
from these hard and heavy shackles,
I am resigned.
This is your response, cousin?

Then, may those who have ears hear you,
And may your fate be better than mine.
May the eyes of the blind continue to see
and the dead be raised again,
for I have oathed to give up life
if ever I can give you thine.

Oh friends, tell him this,
when next your paths may cross,
I will not fall away,
though prison be my lot to my last weary day.
Let this be my final word to the world:
Repent, for the Son of man is here.

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