seven::thirty

Coming down from the mountain

the sight of gold causes my heart

a writhing pain.

I was up there for only a short while,

but the clouds were enough to change my mind.

But for days now

I've been treading among herds of gold,

the smell of field patties

causing my nostril to flare,

putting a glare in my eyes.

And I'm so tired.

I long to be a bird that can rest

in the bush of a mustard plant,

that simple life,

not worry free,

but without all the false necessities.

Yet, I'm among the much, the gold,

the shrines to nothing.

The words I brought down with me,

they are shattered now,

so now I begin my plea:

This land of gold, no, not even gold any longer,

but a faith in lies and slander,

deceit, a murderous, warring god--

give me a chance to speak to it.

I'm not much good for talking,

so provide me the libations,

the fruit to address.

Send those winds and clouds from the mountain

to the valleys and roadways I'm learning to roam.

(Exodus 32:15-24, 30-34, Psalm 106, Matthew 12:31-35)