I Don’t Know You: I Can’t See You

I don’t know you. I can’t see you. But I feel you: the death in
You. It’s iron grey, this canvas blank, this flint-like maze,
This faceless tank. And bleeding skies, depict the stain, of
Breathless grief, and portrait pain. And heart to soul, my
Writhing core, my shredded tears, my mystic sore. And life to
God, such weeping ash, our dripping blood, a brilliant flash.
Plus the mountain, the climb of death, a cryptic weed, a 
Scripted test.

Thus we perish, and ought to fly, aloof to life, afraid to die.
My cultic friend, tiptoe the flame, despite the strife, and private
Shame. For soul to tears, the touch of Christ, the spirit strong,
A mystic light. And heart to plight, the mind’s awake, fraught
With fear, plus heaven’s weight. But deep within, our souls
Connect, the ache of grief, a mystic breath.