to soul places

On her knees

she crawls;

hands outstretched

in dire supplication

her eyes nailed

to the cross.

Above the murmur

of twelve women

and a thousand

hushed prayers

she can hear it calling.

She drowns the sound

in a plaintive wail

that noone can hear.

She steals frantic looks

across the pews —

anonymity

her only protection —

while beads of glass

in plaster robes

pierce her soul

like thorns

on sacred cardiac flesh.

The smell

of burning wax

makes her nauseous

as the dirty scarlet carpet

hides the crimson flow

from between her legs

and salvation

seeps into the ground.

Like wildfire may

Hope spread

Burning quiet but sure,

Keeping our convictions alive,

Our intentions true.

Let it be our armor

Against

Oppressor

And cynic.

Let it be the light

That reveals truth

And clarity

In times of confusion and

Ignorance.

Let it be salve for our wounds.

And the drumbeat

Of this war.

In all its forms –

Love, faith, and justice –

Let it be

Our Motherland’s eternal song.

The light, dying, shone upon the water, and

Waged a final war against the

Gathering darkness.

A brilliant, valiant fight that

Spilled bloody red across the sky.

I close my eyes.

Behind me a chorus of mating calls.

I breathe.

In front of me the roar of white water crashing on sand.

I taste the salt on my lips.

And I struggle to burn in my being

The soundtrack of this sea.

When my Night comes to me,

Let this be my final memory.