Face me to the east,
on a riverside run dry.
Tone callously
commenting as an aside.
Judge the unjudged, remind them at their peril.
Eskimos knew no god, and now priests send them to hell.
The sky is a bridge between which humanity sits.
Part the dried flake of my rest, I'll bear the split.
Then pardon myself for having ever exist.
There's a bear in my soul,
and she clamors to remain within.
First Nations knew no devil,
until we taught them about sin.
being told to mourn at a rate faster than natural
