holy saturday

the smell of the bread was cold like solitude

and sharp like sadness

and sweet like whispers in the night

the baked circlet sat there in all its braided glory

waiting to be broken and bathed

in remembrance of ridicule and redemption

execution and life eternal

the scent of the bread was cold as the solemnity of death

clear as the vibrancy of life returning with the morning light

crisp as freshly folded sheets in spring

its endless ring and three strands symbolizing the undefeatable

the day was sacred to tomb and selpulchure

the new loaf the fragrance of burial


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