The Pilgrim

Holy is as,
See through,
As is power raw.
Heat signature remains,
After source has been gone for years.
Captured relics,
Vibrate the air,
Raptured bodies,
Consecrated reliquaries,
Held tight in hands,
And sewn in pockets.
A pilgrimage begins.

Wind Swept Dry Dirt

Like wind swept dry dirt,
Across unkept cracked concrete roads.
Falling asleep in your throne outside,
To be woken by the falling swords of your army.
Your vocabulary and home tongue,
Absent of capitulation.
Brothers to surrender,
Death of body and will,
And numb to condition.
You remain until the sun shines highest in the sky,
With knife to your throat,
And gun to your head.