This is submitted to Big Tent Poetry. This week’s prompt was a wordle with what seemed to me to be a most unlikely assortment of words. This was what came up for me although, granted, there were no boiler rooms in the time of Christ–that one was a stretch although, if you’ve ever been in a boiler room it is a bit reminiscent of hell. The one word I could not make happen was forklift!
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The Gospel According to St. John
Time passed slowly that afternoon.
Blood flowed like lava into my cupped hand.
The man who hung upon a rough hewn tree
should have reigned over lush gardens of creation.
The night before I’d struggled to remain awake,
but now I stood by the mother until he passed
into the boiler room of hell. We remained there
to receive his body, returned it to the earth,
sealed the tomb with the clunk of a massive boulder.
After the Sabbath, the Phoenix resurfaced from the ash-pit.
Now I write his story, dipping the nib of my pen
in the sanguine ink of eternal mysteries.