under a blistering sun he walks wandering
     the red desert wastelands of the south
         his shoes worn thin by endless miles
clothes stained red as the blood on his hands.

                           [the blood of the damned]

one hundred screaming souls left
                                       abandoned in Hell.
their weight -heavy on burnt shoulders-
           breaks fragile human bones. and he
does not delude himself, so much, to think
that he could ever buy his way through
gates of grace and step, a sinner, into Heaven.

so he walks along these broken roads
                                  searching
for his home on Earth.

   a home he knows is out there somewhere
in soft careless laughter, and slow uncertain smiles
of flesh, and blood, and bone, and living body.

                            brother, i'll be there soon. . .