To the reader

Some thoughts, I cannot keep.

Friday, February 3, 2012

The Messenger

Backlit against the sun
like a black angel,
I am a dove beating her wings,
olive branch
delicate and new in her mouth.

Salt cracked lips smiling,
tears blown away by the sea wind.

I am the first of a generation
seeking land
in a flood. All the rest before us
angered God
with their greed
and their bile
and their endless talk of money.

They are washed away, and we float
above the drowned echoes of their voices.  Still,
we are lost.
I am sent to look for solid ground,
and I return with the first branch,
stripped from the first new tree.

Already, you demand a sacrifice.
We will never change. 

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