The Killing Tree:
Fate’s lost children by the side of the road,
the blind leading blind with their heavy load,
hopelessly mired in their own self-trust,
they tread ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.
These ill-fated captives of the cursed tree,
having lost their way to the crystal sea,
are tethered in time to an endless trace,
and tangled in a life of sad disgrace.
While here, stockpiled around my feet
lay the polished stones of my own conceit.
If rock throwing begins, I’m first to start
by the power of a firm, inflexible heart.
As arrogance abounds in this soul of blame,
I hone my excuses and celebrate their shame.
Then a blood-dipped finger divides the mind,
and removes the veil that has kept me blind.
With new eyes I see the one who sets free
as I’m caught in his view from the killing tree.
Transfixed by the gaze of this bleeding man,
I see the divided path near which I stand.
One is a path of the counterfeit kiss
for the thief and liar and heart amiss,
the way of shadows passing into night,
beyond the death vale and out of sight.
The other is a path over mercy’s hill
for the chosen few of the yielded will,
the way of light through an open door,
crossing the threshold of eternity’s shore.