trapped with a salvaged map,

trucking through catacombs

lit white as bone

with flames

that maimed bloodlines

sacred rhymes

made claim

as the only holy domain

he walks over

floors worn scorned

walls caked, torn

and bubbled as the ceiling

crumbles rubble


pacing down rumbling tunnels


the thunder of stampeding

those roaming freely


the fools

with undoubtedly wicked

tools, with spools

of delusions, confusions

prayers impaired

of the ruthless

the others


by his ruling Spirit


-B. Brown


(image by Jillian Locke)