Golgotha

We don’t really save each other.

Not really in our nature.

We close with and destroy,

evoke the primal senses.

Beckoning in temptation,

but we aren’t built

to break limbs for each other,

lift up each other’s burdens.

Drag my cross to Golgotha.

Stand in the face of danger.

If we were,

those who did

would not be the exception.

It would be “normal”.

 

In a world of heroes,

it would take something

akin to a god

to be considered a higher being.

Then,

I remember,

there was a time

when it was only us

and our ideal.

We reflected it

and we reveled in it,

embodied its whole spirit.

So maybe we were heroes

once

upon

a time.

 

Not sure if we need

to be saved,

or if we need

to save ourselves?

Either would be preferable

to these misguided,

private hells,

that we insist on making public,

that we value our opinions

over the lives of others.

 

It’s such a disappointment

to watch

you watch

me drag

this cross

and you spit on me.

There’s no saving you.

Can I reach out a hand

so you will see that my scars

match the ones

on your heart?

 

 

HG – 2019