No Good Friday Here

Oh smooth voice of cream and honey A metronome flow, a mellifluous murmur… No grit nor granite here… No knowledge of bramble-tangle, Skin scored by thorn Bruised-eyes, broken dreams And no-hope-mornings The groan of Golgotha The sky scored by a cry The blood-beating at pain’s pace Panic-rising.. ….no room in this voice for this….