What makes a boy thrown to the ground,
Wrestle with quiet inner rage?

The silence of spectators
As they turn their backs and close the outer gate.

All the pain and sorrow,
All the weight of a broken heart,
Breaking backs, breaking love;
Spreading fog, spreading confusion
Breathing in

And breathing out
Innocence left punch-drunk,
Staggering through
A volatile haze.

What makes a young man throw himself to the ground,
Fist drawn, red faced, with flooding eyes, fight like an animal stuck in a cage?

The aftermath of something amiss, its escalation and the
Downward spiral of a soul thrown towards the abyss.

Why did they hate me so much?
What great benefit fell upon them that my tears would bring them joy?

My face painted red, I am become
Their scapegoat,
A nothing, my name expendable.
My heart shattered,
I am become undefendable.
what vicious acquittal
Springs forth from unholy happiness.

What makes a grown man fall to his knees?
What makes the raging innocent, find eternal peace?

It’s the narrow way; through the wicket gate,
Beyond the marsh,
Past deceivers mill,
Up to the top of Golgotha,
To the foot of the cross,
And The One who died there,
Yet lives still.

©Rod Lampard, 2018