The Cross On Which He Died

[LookingForBritt]

I had to write a poem in my senior English Identity class about our identity. We were supposed to pick an object that represented our identity and then right an extended metaphor poem about it. I thought I would share mine (:

He carried me,
and I let Him fall,
more times than one.
I heard the shouts
as He carried me
those horrid wretched words.
I felt His bleeding, bruised, and broken skin
a color as deep as scarlet shown
I smelled the vinegar they placed to His lips
and tasted His blood as it ran down.
I was the reason He died,
I am the killer.
The tears streamed down her face,
His mother,
they were like a rushing stream
as she saw her son impaled on me.
I was the reason He died,
the sin, the shame, the guilt of everyone
all nailed to me, the cross.
I am the killer.
Whether I am the sinner
or me as this wooden cross.
His last dying words were on me
and with a gasp He took His last.
Because I am the killer,
whether as the sinner or my wooden cross.