Hermit to Himself

Sohail's Jesus

Moss carpeting the floor

“We are all alone”

Festering at the thicks of cloth;
In murder, a canopy of knives garlanded
to the lamb;

“It teases you”

Smoke wafting through the air,
punching at nostrils,
intones the riddle of
Hope crucified in his own square.

“Makes you believe”

The unconfessed did not wash their eyes
while his head lifted:

“Comfort, have you come for me?”

“Earth will you not loose?”

Mother seemed to hiss

As her crevices murmured:

“No, not today.”

Photograph: Sohail Anwar


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