Fruitless Cries

pieta
Alone I stand at the top of the canyon ridge.
As the shout rings out, the gentle slopes grab the vibrato
and bounce it along the canyon face.
Only the eagle can hear the desperation in my voice
and I shout once again to be sure he hears the cry.
Surely this is what it will be like
alone at the top
thundering cries that are not heard by ears
the canyon dancing and crumbling here and there.
The voice is as if scarlet
as blood starts to trickle out of the palms of my hands
and searing pain rips through my feet.
Tears begin to turn the dust into mud
and I desperately wipe them away with my scapular.
Raising my head
I wince at the desert sun
for a drop of water
my throat yearns,
for shade my shoulders burn.
If only I could make them all hear
although there are no souls around
If only I could land even on deaf ears
I would surely drop to my knees and beg.
I reach inside my body, and grab my heart
Ripping it out
and it pulsates in my hand.
I throw it as far as I can into the canyon
and watch as the blood splatters on the rocks below.
Blood starts to seep around the rock, so far down
and continued to spread filling in the spaces around the rocks
and eventually the boulders begin to float.
Soon after, the bottom of the canyon is a river of blood, and from the North
A gigantic flood rushes down the canyon flood
mingling with the blood.
Ever so slowly, I take a step off
and let myself fall
a long way down.
The eagle swoops down and catches my fall
Carrying me back to the top
And there I crumble and wait
For now, I know there is no escape.