The Doctor Is In

a physician looks at medicine, religion, politics, pets, & passion in life
 

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What makes our hearts turn to stone is the discovery that, in one sense or another, we are all butchers pretending to be sacrificers. . . . One thing alone can put an end to this infernal ordeal, the certainty of being forgiven.
--René Girard--

Headlights

October 14th, 2007 · 2 Comments


 
The headlights
Slashing, their savage brilliance hacking at the night
Frantically seeking the heart which drives this dark hollow beast.

Where is she?
There. Alone. Walking.
Hair cast in cold mercury vapors, the mockery of light.
Cold. Shivering. Surviving, yet again.

The road, empty.
The heart, empty.
The words, enraged and empty.
The road, unlit, dark as dawn divorced of day.

Questions pour forth
Rushing like blackened pavement beneath worn tires.
Rushing like whitened stripes streaking toward the past.
Anguished. Searching. Unanswerable.

Where is He?
Here. Alone. Talking.
Prayer cast in cold mercury vapors, a mockery of sight.
Frantically I seek the Heart which drives this dark hollow beast.

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Tags: Poetry · Family

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