That I be exiled to Golgotha was written in fire
and so it happened.
52 weeks ago, I was sentenced to bleed on a crucifix
and die like he did.
The vestiges of my innocence or the cold fear on my skin
bore no significance.
What good was my degenerate child-self against
the utter barrenness of the Calvary?
But the year of Golgotha was also
the year of love.
To be forcefully loved against stubborn despair
is the privilege of a precious few.
I was never alone, not once, through the year of my sentence
in Golgotha.
I was loved this past year.
The year of Golgotha was the year I knew Love.
