Where can I go to escape this land?
Where can I go to flee its drought?
Where can I go? My land has torn out
Its heart and cast me to the winds of sand.
I drift aimlessly on the gusting sand,
I have nowhere to go. To flee this bout,
I have nowhere to go. No song to sing aloud,
No joy. No refuge from this warring land.
This warring land, possessor of my heart;
a place of self-discovery to grow
into the fullness of a man. Her art,
her painted sun sets, burned on my soul.
My god, my god, why have you cast me far
away, a leper thrown out in the snow
and left to freeze; left scraping bleeding scars
upon my arms—forsaken’d, dead, alone.
I run in search of hope, a home, for room
to simply live. An open home? No place
to stay. Me being here, great dangers loom.
The Nazarene refused again in hate.
Across the sea at me their anger fumes.
They build their walls in love; compassionate
they call me freak and terrorist; their doom
I spell in just being there. Their love is hate.
I return home, the slave of war I’ll be.
My sword and shield enraged cry out for thee
To drown in blood, to die beneath my feet.
My enemy, I spit hell’s heart at thee.


~ by hankimler on December 11, 2015.

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