i step on the bare earth
and have kept quiet ever since,
afraid my words would
shear the history
that stands among us,

there is nothing between me and the sun,
yet i hear obsolete calls to dominion,
becoming the rituals of oils,
the bottles of the high priest
at his battle ground,
    
and his religion, the sword, the horror
of which settles questions better
than it answers them,
should be turned inward if
it weren't for the immense sadness
of our grieving diety.

i have escaped by roving for now
through a lush country,
green beyond belief in itself, where
the sweet root calls as birds in
summer heat and peace is an
underwhelming joy,

but i won't stand forever
i can't, it will on its own,
rise and fall determined
by our bleeding needs,
determined by the distance between
footfalls placed
the worth of all worths.