At Bethany,
He is there
but gone,
He leaves
but doesn’t go.
The broken sky
gapes wide,
a curtain torn
again-
and the crack in
the wounds of time
begins its
healing
with the dressing
of a cloud.
There is no
fanfare
at this pseudo
departure
no sounding of
bells
or beating of
drums,
no salute of guns
to roar the air
with their invasion,
no wail of
mourners
nor wine-fed
wake.
There is only
the drumming of
heartbeat
as the words of
blessing fade.
There is only
the turning to a
page
saying death is
not the end.
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