Exit and Entrance

I am Saint Stephen, stoned and
prone, flat-faced to the dirt,
bleeding, boned.  Pounds of flesh
have been carved:  wielded
blades.  Hands always grasp
the unholy, fed by vacant
minds.  Feet worn to the ankles
I walked the rising roads
to here:  my Winter:  different
to everyone else's.  The silent
crowds who caused the blood
stand round, watching my
small white breath.  Only the
unreal hand grasping mine gently,
to help me up, is
the one bright thing: the lamp
that warms the skin.  There
is no going on, only a going in.

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