He is nailed to the cross

Feeling certain needs, but quashing them -
he felt certain of his rightness, but was
saddened, knowing now that rightness is a
weak excuse for weakness.  Yet he
still refused to close the gap that opened
round his climbing (even when it could 
be narrowed, when the further side stood still
and stopped receding from his feet);
               around him was cold
vacuum, and he felt the pressure forcing
outwards, felt it pierce him, felt too full,
empty and stretched.
               And the pain his
limbs feel, pinned by extremities,
spreadeagled in memory; the haze
remained uncleared, the gap about him
widened, and feeling the unreality of 
his pain, feeling a fever growing deep behind 
his features, feeling the long slow floating
as he leaves his body, seems to leave the
wounds, the noise, but hears it still (so
distant and so muffled now).
Hot sun, cool fire... he tries to stay silent,
hardly hears his own low moans, his weak
requests for some relief.  You know they won't
give it - you know they don't notice -
you know they'll give in soon.  He coughs,
and accepts even a gift of mockery, even
your gift of rather half-hearted guilt (twice
removed).  He feels few needs, now,
only for a certainty, a need to know that
this is right.  This is never right.

( to the contents page.)