The Prophet stretches in wrenching pain
across the continent.
We travel south across His chest
where Roman spearheads
have cut into the landscape.
Scratches in somewhat healed asphalt
and burnt forests in a pathetic wasteland of violence
and decay.
East and west, trailing hundreds of strained veins
toward nails like pins on a map.
Seek out the latitude on
elliptical scopes
in honor of something.
The Slave
and
The Savior