A Poem By Anne Showers-Curtis - May 18, 2012
Held up on high, an example for the people.
The "crimes" of my faith spilled for the sight of the village.
As if blood from my body were a page from my book, a spell cast for the benefit of death, the people watched in awe.
As my head hung in dizziness, my eye caught the large, rusted nails that held me to this old rugged slab of wood.
Piercing straight through my upper arms, they glistened as the wine of my life poured like a fountain around them.
But I could feel the wind on my face. I could smell the salt of the sea. I could see the green of the earth around me, and I began to feel the lick of the flames at my feet.
They thought this the death of my spirit. They thought this the death of the craft that they so feared.
But they sent me to the sky.
A ceremonious exit of this living form, surrounded by the elements of my faith.
As the flames grew higher, I looked into the blue sky & whispered "it's a beautiful day..."