broken down
at the base of the Body
facing a field
freshly frozen over.
it doesn’t matter
how high I heat my car
or how far I park;
the pronged pins
prick colder than oldness,
and the ibes’
innocent chatter
Shatters,
breaking bolder than so-called
Chosen souls.

behind stands
Apate
in her most glorious form-
built on distilled minds
and glorified
in gilded glitter.
her sparkling cross
is arched
in the glowing dark
Dead-
dead like the hope
it supposedly shows and
Gone-
gone like the days
I sat upon
a stump and heard
each bird
serenade a song sweeter
than any hymn.

but the path
out back
doesn’t reprise,
and all man alive
at some time
will find himself
bogged
in a morass of lies.



here I sit,
stationed on the
fine line
between forged freedom
and certain servitude.

Ignite!
spark the flight and
lead the plight
of the Slave…
for serving
on a ship
under the
set sun
on the
wide open
Ocean of Change
isn’t a flooded fate.