Betray
what you will, when
will is free

when arms cast down
a multitude of shadows,
weaving a soul

dancing naked
before the sun.

Away betrays
the warrior, the only
one
still mocking his
conscience, by folly
begotten.

Away, away
you, a heart made of stone
left bitter and coddled
by the soil,
You wear a skin

one
that time
does not remember,
a flesh
tarnished

by the deluge of
pity
before the tempest,
by the bone-white
knuckles
of defiant sands.

Betray
such might, a
might made strong
by forgiveness,

Mercy
lays with judgment
as a child
lays with wonder

And in his wandering, Man
finds himself
lost before two rivers:

one he fears
and one he must
tread,

not knowing
the two are
but streams of saliva,
quickly escaping the
same mouth.

And when the tide
pulls him under,
bleak by satisfaction

and by the wisdom
of mortality,
he whispers softly:

Oh, Mother.