"Easter has less to do with one person's escape from the grave than with the victory of seemingly powerless love over loveless power" --Bill Coffin Flags drape Easter’s unknown tomb, strapped around rock with metal’s twisted brooch. Sorrow stains the air (where steel spikes pierced hands and feet) slinging hope like a missile out its cage of a valiant plot into the mislaid reaches of cruelty. Why must mankind heave and lick the powerless air with death’s dark tongue? The disconcerted stand silent on dead-end streets awaiting hope to unravel... come undone. © 2011 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)