What Happened to the Walk of Humankind

We have bruised ourselves with war

how deeply our souls abide in the wounds,

      abounding with the amputations of hearts and every reason,

From one to many times

the treasure of the soul

               until no longer whole,

the coldness of sound makes a guardian of

                                    ill pronouncements,

      A marching breath,

      frozen in ourselves as learned,

      thunder rollings of harden hearts,

      rounded into rocks.

      from which we take the notion of freedom

                     placing in our slings, words as colored stones

                          targeting ourselves

                              teaching our children to follow.

Our roads are staked with signs of void spaces

                    imprisoning ourselves with amusements,

where our souls are consigned for pawn at the every corner.


The darkness is black dew upon our brows

Our inventions take flight into the universe

                                 but the soul has no place to land.

Battered, the soul knows nothing of the earth.

The capacity for tender seeding is stripped

                         of any mantel unto another.                                                     


The exit rings out with the throbbing of war in the smallest places:

       Our one soul is no longer any kind of many

       and the many wars against the many

       leaves the soul conditioning,

                                         itself,  for the next war-step.