The Stones Cry Out

It's a long ride home, and some of us won't make it. Unfamiliar turns, unforeseen pitfalls, and we evolve. They say we're better than this. We stop to leave behind the weak and wounded. I watch in dismay while doing nothing. Time and this river roar on; the future's already forgotten.

They carry their own crutches; hand-over-hand, they tow useless legs behind them. A snake path winding through the sand. They beg us for salvation. But we'll make them our martyrs. We'll paint words onto their tongues and pour passion on their lips; we'll infuse it in their veins. And when they gasp in agony, we'll insert our own theology.

"Father, forgive them."

Have mercy on their souls. And let the children preach. Let them wander from town to village. Let them stumble in the streets. And when the bombs go off, let them remember what we've taught. Let the fallen lie, and thank Providence for another day.

"Let the dead bury the dead."

For we have two swords. And we know how to render another corpse. We know how to rejoice. And forget the ones we're here to save when we can just find a different cause.

"Let the dead marry the grave."

And leave it at that.