Dylan Wyatt
Shadows painted on walls made of brick and mortar,
painted over signs of red that command you to STOP.
Somewhere in the dark sky above, a blackbird
flies by in a hurry, waving its obsidian wings,
as I walk along the path I have taken, forsaken.
Just past midnight, for the bells have announced the witching hour,
I stop at a white church, gothic spires pointing towards the heavens.
At the altar, a priest kneels before the golden, gilded cross
deep in prayer. I walk up to him cautiously,
careful not to let my large frame scare the frail, old man.
He doesn’t seem to notice me, for why should he,
so I walk away quietly. A tear falls from the Father’s face.
The eyes of Christ, stained in glass, stare at me,
judge me with the burning of heavenly fire,
as I walk along the path I have taken, forsaken.
Ten long years of unending pain have passed
since I last walked this cold road to my home
where a happy family now lives without me.
She is just as beautiful as I remember, surrounded
by my tired and aging parents, and the children I left behind.
As I walk along the path I have taken, forsaken,
I finally realize why I cannot be forgiven
for my crimes. My sins have allowed me to be awaken
as I walk along the path I have taken, forsaken.