Echoes of you

In the midst of Bethlehem, 

you sought a mirage of Eden 

Execrated between your words of reprieve 

And soft spoken whispers of grace

Holding on to our believed bond

Mistaken as impartial.

Contemplation 

between locking thyself 

in perpetual ambivalence

Found only after damnation and discord.

Pity escapes one soul 

While pervading the other.

Shackles of enslavement

Not meant for me though upon my ankles.

You hold the forbidden fruit

just within reach.

Words of atonement stark 

Against your actions' sin.

“Do what’s right for yourself,” you often said.

As I knelt, 

groveled, and prayed 

Wandering in the desert

Given over to my own judgment,

You withdrew from the commonplace.

And as was done, the veil was torn.

Because despite deception, 

I nurtured hope upon infertile grounds.

A futile effort in a land where nothing could grow.

How painful was it for you– 

Knowing all along that barren fields await?

To conceal that 

From yourself? 

From others? 

For so long.

Yet a fallacy I had consumed for equal duration:

Maybe you were just, and searching for amnesty.

In the same place I had been left,

You appear a stranger, 

though contemptuous and weary.

Mendacious loving kindness filled the air

As if you truly believed 

you were the salvation 

I had been longing for.

But it was not me 

that had been needing 

such deliverance.

For this day, and each day, 

I receive my daily bread.

In every breath, 

I live knowing my debts are forgiven.

Thus as so, I had imparted upon you grace,

That I once received.

Respect that you had spit upon

And of course, I were to be mistaken for a fool, 

As I let you live in beguilement.

Coming back to offer deliverance with fruit in hand,

hesitant as you pass it my way, “Take it,” you spoke.

Premeditated, certainly, because your words:

They lack weight.

And they always had.

Yet I still clung onto hopes 

of your own naivety.

Our demise had never been more imminent.

Because despite having the power

You advocate not to release me from these chains.

And as I well with compassion,

I had let myself be at your whim.

Because woeful would it be for my decision

To choose myself, be mistaken as abhorrent.

Never was it that, nor would it ever be so,

Because despite how we ended here,

What a beauteous joy it was,

To let myself love you, though

At my own sanity.

And in our confinement,

To get to know one another,

As intimate as we’d let,

Bare and unadorned.

Though what was accurate?

After all your half-truths.