The Bridge, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The Bridge

The Bridge

Standing at the edge on its darkened side
Feeling like a moth pulled into a flame
Staring at a glow with eyes opened wide
What’s its message attempting to proclaim

If I were to cross where next would I go
As my vision fails to pierce the bright light
Would it lead like the star of long ago
Can’t raise a foot due to a nervous fright

Not sure there’s a path to the Promised Land
A place not to be tempted anymore
Will there be rules that I will understand
Way too much thinking making my head sore

Reduced to a matter of faith and trust
Not a subject simply to be caucused

 

The First Nail, a poem by Robert A. Sieczkiewicz

The First NailImage manipulated by author

First Nail

Blood, sweat and dust mixes upon my head
Now at the demonic place of the skull
Soiled and tattered robe swiftly made to shed
Knocked to the hardened ground, there is a lull

The rope around my wrist and tree is tight
Is readying me for what is to pass
Point joggled and pressed between bones till right
With swift arc, action sounds like broken glass

Adrenaline rush due to the unknown
Then my scream from excruciating pain
For every heart beat comes a wincing groan
As my precious blood falls upon the plain

Father in Heaven Your will, will be done
Three days now I wait for the morning sun