The Razor Whip
Etching into the blackest night,
my hands bound, not in prayer tonight.
The twisted rope torture from the wooden beam…
Then, an angel whispers, “It’s not what is seems.”
The sound that cracks through the heavy air,
the whites of the eyes in a horrifying glare,
my mind melts not wanting to succumb…
an old trick, when we think we are done.
What we have known ceases to be
as we yield to the force that sets us free.
And we stand beside, to witness it.
With great reverence, a candle is lit.
There are the souls that will not see,
impotently passing though history.
Then, there are those awakened to the plight,
daring deliverance and preparing for the night.
The general caucus rings the bell,
a callused reminder all is well.
We laugh at what’s most absurd.
Our bipartisan resolve will have the last word.
