burning hard and fast
charcoaled remains
purposely skewered
upon the cross
through my entrails
so all may see the
blood delivered
I hang
on the point
musing the world
which passes beneath me
as my life
drops cold and red
into a draining sea
the tide rolls out
decayed dreams dead
the cross upon the hill
has fallen (or perhaps never there?)
my life carried away
leaving just my mind
to sift the sand.
– Chris George
1981/82
