Leaving reminds me of this horse
which can sense when I am about to ride him
and which is never so vigorous when riding
as in those first few moments before I do
Breath his bellows,
I find that there is never so much space and focus
as when I prepare
to leave this place behind
Just as dust kicked up, settles
stamping down dustpiles like forming hills
laying old drafts to rest
like in the wild few moments
before the very first Day fled its stables
shaking and quivering
racing the horizon

What if this is not your Divine Moment?
Light streams in, yet
your hair sits patient on the nape of your neck
waiting for the sublime
a call to attention
Your focus flitters and fails to find submission
to such a thing as you call holy
You hear:
this is not your moment either
this is not your moment either

Justice in the Eyes of a Rat

What comrade can yet be found
still counting the flags in the snow?

For causes which once stood firm
defying what Tyranny sowed

The tatters of Brothers in arms
are tended by rats and crows

Where colors of Freedom were cast
reflected in red-evening glow

Here, mourners-triumphant might ask
with prayers muttered quick and low

Did Justice, which bows and bends
ring out before doomsdays's close?

And resting on lakes and fens
what Justice does white mist know?