Stumbling along, lost with no set path.
Sightings left in a wake of places
In a garden, in a locked room, on a road.
Wandering around trying to find the very spot
of encounter, praying it might happen, missing more than seeing.
So lost ramblings is what turn out.
No straight path, no secret encounter, no meaning making
from the violence of death and a quick burial.
Where might one find this risen Christ, where is
the encounter, awakening, private confession.
It is all consuming this desire to have.
Yet all it is, is wanderings on my own road.
Stop, rest too weary to carry on, too disappointed
to make another step. Tired hands, feet,
no money left to continue. So others listen to the stories.
Others bind travel weary one and feed.
Then it is found in the hands of these other,
Weary worn pilgrims. Wanting a hope,
So the stories are told again, of the birth of a hope
stronger than death. A love for the world
Which shows sacrifice instead of power.