This time
The tomb
Stays closed,

Since God
Himself
Has perished

Upon
What cross
We’ve chosen

Where death
Is a permanent
State –

From sin
Once seen
As need

Within
These bodies
Willing

To find
Such answers
Desperate

While fear
Has trumped
Our soul,

Inside
Poor flesh
So weak

Where pleasure
Chased
Like demons

Fills
Those holes
Regardless

With gifts
Whose grins
Can kill.

My heart
Just doesn’t
Bleed

Anymore
All life
Should suffer

Knowing illness
Proves
How nature

Doesn’t care
If Easter
Waits,

Wishing somehow
Christ
Could save

Before breath
Escapes
Each body

Begging heaven
Come
That Sunday

Being cancelled
Now
For good.

– J. Pigno