Servitude

From the throne of God, atop the mountain’s cragged face,

a faint waxing blush bleeds through the ashen darkness.

Through this small rent in the damn of night,

the golden glow of a resurrected sun spills over a dark sea of clouds,

transfiguring water to wine and wine to milk.

Far below, the misty wisps of the broken billowing tide,

a slow rolling breaker spreads its whitewash of light across the dusky valley floor

washing away the cobwebs and dust of night.

In its growing brightness the past becomes the future

and what was the shadow of myths takes on the breathing flesh of reality.

Illuminated in an amber haze

a lonely, winding river, fences off virgin, fresh, fertile, green felt forests,

as well as others, deflowered and defiled by mans touch.

Their violator having plowed and sowed their fields

had left them soiled and partially covered with patchwork quilts of varying colors.

Unable to see the imperfections of truth,

these frayed blankets are redeemed by delusions that ignore their dirt stained tears.

These unnoticed runs in worn and ragged, harlequin cloths

reveal the dark skin of man’s slave.

Here an ancient, well worn, dusty, dung spattered, dirt scar,

the master’s mark of ownership,

carrying the servant‘s sweat to the distant shops and stores

separates creations perfection and nature’s naked shame.

Passing by, the thirsty byway bends with the damp demands of it’s conjoined consort

and belatedly promises marriage

as it holds intercourse with the twisting, lazy, cafe-Au-leit ribbon of water.

Blistered by the bumps of buried boulders,

and stained by mottled splotches of shade,

the plain, seldom chosen lane,

and its tainted hoary companion,

come to a deserted country church,

lying with its crooked crosses, and crumbling cemetery crypts

that hold the mass of all its believers and non believers alike.

Here, as the land’s life blood flows back to its mother,

master and slave become one.

And thus from the dust and dirt God created his bastard son.