How do we stop the routine
that blinds us
from the privileged position
of the earth
that binds us
as it turns?
An image brighter than the sun burns.
Like ants we run away.
Survival is our day-to-day.
He looks through a just scope
for a voluntary scapegoat
to find, at last, a respectable kill.
His motive?
Neither a self-aggrandizing thrill
nor for the money
like a provincial mercenary
pleading a case
before a guilty jury.
We have neither liability of insurance
nor can we pay the deductible
for Perfection.
Our reassurance
is His willingness
to be caught in the cross hairs,
a red dot
at the intersection
of an atoning fare
and a predetermined time-slot.
With one eye that never blinks,
He stares intently
and waits patiently
for centuries
on a mountain of laws
to put an end to the bloodshed
with the last shot
heard around the block.
The King of the Ants
moves into position
to be burned by the Light
only to be brought back to life.
Never has a buck been given this birthright.
Like a statue
the Hunter and His weapon of righteousness
stand still.
Here comes the kill shot.
Suddenly, the old ways are void.
The moon drips crimson
and the rifle’s destroyed.
The curse is lifted.
A new decree is gifted—
“Cast not the first stone.”
Forevermore,
the inhabitants of the land
drink heartily
and eat merrily
for the sacrifice
of one of their own.
