A Road Unforgotten (or, in my opinion, the best I've ever written and probably ever will)

The sky cries when I do

the sorrow of the atmosphere

(too much pressure, you know)

a natural and violent response

to the disappointment of the gods.

How ridiculous, you say

that my insignificant tears

would trigger Heaven's downpour,

that my paltry personal pain

could have such universal effect;

as if I alone could control

some indeterminate stretch of space

with trite human emotion.

Still, perhaps you've noticed

that the sky cries when I do.

Divine presence made known to me

in wind and wet and chill:

our tears commingle in common

as the air howls in sympathy

caressing my skin in cyclical bursts,

sucking and pushing at my clothing,

so I may stand naked and cleansed.

The sky cries when I do

the life of the world bursting forth

from the bulging gray belly

of the universal gateway;

the anguish of the effort

(water and air torn apart to birth the rain)

the evidence of my creation.

Carefully crafted by the cosmos am I:

star and space, heaven and Earth

joined in me by ethereal design.

No one save I compelled to recognize

that the sky cries when I do.

No saviour but I to myself, the world

but nonetheless forged human.

Object of Grace, yet subject to sorrow,

perfection encased in cellular disarray.

The gods weep for my temporary disorganization

and their own fury for such experimental embodiment,

my tears the shameful provenance

of a promise left vaguely unkept.

Holy I am, self-denial itself denied;

the element of my momentary unworthiness

effectively hidden and lovingly masked -

the sky cries when I do.