its inmates wrapped in shrouds
made from solemn, decaying manuscripts,
redolent of dried blood,
suffused with the color
of dead seas and prayer-filled
deserts, and
steeped in wrathful love.
They look at him
with pleading, piteous eyes,
hoping to save him from
the worst sufferings of their
fear-saturated
imaginations,
calling out to him
to join the cloud-destined
procession, urging him
onward toward the ladder set in
majestic isolation in the
heart of the windswept field,
its cobbled together rungs
boldly reaching toward eternity.
It is all he can do
to not simply
give in and clamber up
the steps and leap
off the top,
hoping to ascend to
unimaginable dreamworlds
of transcendent peace,
rather than finding out
just how unforgiving
sun-hardened clay
can really be.
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