Velamen: Canto I

The space, a dark wood. My face tear-streaked.

Prospective fate, not good. Sharp prison, no release.

My countenance circumscribed by a wooden frame

Without smiles for a while, my body: crippled, lame

Thorny fingers tore into adulterated flesh

Threshed under the wheels and gears 

Of the machine that called me inferior for generations and years

I sat in the silence of the night

Like times I dwelt under dusky Southern skies

Where when the sun went down

The fireflies arise

But unlike the warmth that comes when things blaze to life

This darkness was different, vacuous like distance

Death adhered as close as a man with his mistress

And the infidelity was real

Cold fingers from cold hands gripped my head like steel

Was this bondage self-inflicted? 

Did I ask to be afflicted?

Did I unjustly become the victim?

Another number in the system?

Was My crown of thorns permissive?

And my sacrifice in vain?

Could this treading press of a garden

Be my Gethsemane in name?

“Brandon.” A name? My name? I hadn’t heard for so long

Could it be? It was indeed a strange refrain to that dark song

That was my life. My mother’s sons indeed harsh to me

Feigned hope is a chief lieutenant of all cruelties

“Brandon.” But there it was again. 

My name, Spoken in the same tone, but more definite.

A whisper, but something more, 

An outward breath that struck my core. 

But my eyelids suddenly felt heavy 

Like an infant after feeding 

To rest in the repose of her mother’s arms

And to follow her leading.

Brandon?  I’m not sure if it was my strength or help from the divine.

But the vines and thorns gave way the third time.

It was as if the Great Resurrector called my name from the cave

Pernicious plants had no power, Lazarus had risen from the grave.