Her river it renews him and calls him by his name, her raging water carves out his flesh demanding him to tame
A double sided sword of sorts, conflicting confusing shame, it matters not the phallus, it matters not the name
The set and setting, enlightenment, oriented toward the clouds, victory over death, the calling, observe the thousand crowds
Brick of bone and soot and ash the mortar of the tower, climbing higher still-the man-but soon will come the hour
A fall a fool a forecast, an aging of the ways, all the same we tumble toward the end of wicked days
Number and rank and file and fill the gaps we will, but our blood and flesh the prophets crave, forever will it spill
He shutters at the sight and with eyes closed ever tight, topple the bricks and break the sticks, and end this age old fight
We forget and can’t remember, the light we cannot temper, it tempts us so, tossed to and fro, the curse, lament the ember
Willing or commanded, animated but if candid, forced in labor and too the saber, both stricken and demanded.
Divine, divining right, a warming place tonight, neither guaranteed nor granted so, just a place to heave and ho and escape the slavers might.
Such the place and time of us, a bit of love perhaps a trust, each other we have to warm our ears and fill our bellies and taste our tears
Among the better angels our trists and treachery sated, to live and love and hate and of our death may it be belated.