A Poem by J.C. Bratcher
If I could harness my hardness,
Buttress the heart to the carcass,
Rare to quiet the harping of harlots,
Hard to hearken how innocence parted,
Concepts of potential, amiss and abysmal,
Eventual grifter, adrift with a hymnal.
Blood of Christ is brought to life,
Perished in harness, dawning of lies,
Avalanche of souls upon the varnish
Take this cross, The Son is martyred.
On this night, death of a son omits the light,
To sledge my nail til flesh divides,
Albatross-fate, a Peter-crown,
Cursed by weight, a king to clowns,
Betrayal of self, a world let down.
Still and yet, the exit’s essential,
Tears for loss, reprieve for a criminal,
It is now the time to gather vision,
Soul is a chasm of staggering distance,
Spanning a bridge to redemption,
I am the plan, two hands to mend it.
Discard the crutch, Man to purpose,
I am no longer reborn,
I am unburdened.
J.C. Bratcher, educated at Cumberland University of Tennessee and participated in a doctorate program studying human behavior at Tennessee Tech University. Several publications in professional journals. Writer of poetry, prose, parable, and aspiring novelist.