The bathroom faucet drips hurried footsteps,
carrying him back to dappled wood buried
in repeated dreams: a brushed ritual
circle hasty ringed by displaced logs, bark bit
by lichens; their sacrilege tools — hammer's
rotted-wood grip, nails with rusty shafts — littered
about a stump-altar where brothers met,
made not-so-secret sacrifice, to abash
their god; still suffering toad, random
picked to endure this mock passion play ending
on cross-tied twigs. Its yet resurrected
eyes stare at him, ask simple but damning "why?"
No Samaritan, good or bad, among
pretend Romans, ever stayed their hands to help.
— Francis Scudellari
This is my second poem (finally) written in response to Read Write Prompt #91 at Read Write Poem.