a voice crying out in the postmodern wilderness

A Thousand Hollow Hills

On this ground I’ll make my stand
Spent all night honing this blade
I’ll irrigate this earth with the blood
of straw men

The lines are clearly drawn
Uniforms sharply pressed
Dogma recited
Sewed-on eyes flash hate

The bugle blows and I rush forth
My enemy stands his ground
Dead still, oddly still
Still standing there

Midfield the ground sloppens
My boots clod with blood
Am I bleeding?
Spinning, I become still

Banging in my head:
”But I say to you that everyone
who is angry with his brother 
will be liable to judgment…”

This blood, up to my knees
Trousers maroon to the thigh
Wading in victim shed
But my blade remains virgin

Oh my God
What have I done?
Intentions manifest on
a thousand hollow hills.

An Invitation

Sorrowful Yet Rejoicing