Gospels & Gerunds

I’ve watched my faith fall back like daylight savings;

no guard for
the gospels that
guard me,

lexicons alarmingly
close to archaic
and gerund ridden;

more ailment than antidote for
this life that’s wrapped its
hand around my
throat and squeezed.

But I’ve learned to consider forests
for their trees and whispers wandering

between each one.

Insanity is a blessing,
nesting, ready to
protect its young.

I’ve watched the atrocities of
nature rise-
nurtured
then maligned until
internal divides drained them of all
kinship and bloodlines.

An arrogance
become impairment,
drunk on
the merits of
being kings.

And who am I but their prey,
born and raised to
religiously evade them,

worshipping the
wood chips that keep my
existence safe.

This ain’t my revolution but I find myself destitute waiting for a change in regime,

an Earth for the meek, a lone dream
burrowed beneath distant screams and boreal beehives,

but no species ever volunteers.

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