If I had prayed with her

in the garden while the others slept,
or joined her on that storm-clouded hill
as the one from Aramathea,
immersed in the ocean trench of his grief,
gently lowered the torn and bloodied corpse,
or if I had risen up in the middle
of the air as the joyous
SHOUT
echoed through skies witnessing
the coming of the Kingdom,
would she have
seen past my formless heart,
and kept me alive
longer?

The grief must come in silence,

so as not to arouse suspicion
or call attention to
your tiresome pathos
and
your faded drama queen sorrow.
Bypassers must be kept in the dark,
so there can be no audible sobs;
that's for children
and other people who are still
unconcerned
about
their image.

I imagine a day

when all of them are gathered

in some place fragrant with

sweet flowers,

and everything is finally revealed,

as we might show a child 

the person holding the strings

on the marionette.

And many of them will nod knowingly,

perhaps saying, "So THAT'S what that was",

and others will bend their heads down and weep

softly, the grayish terrors finally falling from

their shoulders with a clattering racket.

And some will stare in shocked disbelief,

as the world they drove themselves into

like a tent stake

crumbles beneath their feet. 
And others

will laugh gleefully as they watch the

pained expressions of those

who were so sure that the marionette

was a real boy.