In the Weary Land
slow-beaten by sun and
hedged betwixt burnt twigs and
shimmers: love normalcy 'choice'
blister twist crackle as destiny of some other regions;
lips cracked, all reasons legion,
amid boiling blood and
the burning sand we here hope for the Voice
from some ancient Promised Land.
The Voice - Vox, Voca, Vocis -
is He
here? does He ever
come by here anymore?
can You hear us, hear me?
O come let us reason; O please come
to me as You've come to some,
O Gentle Breeze, O Laughter; but how
terrible You come to this region, how
terrifying these my intended brothers,
O Voice-Who-comes-in-the-burning-scrub.
-r
