lines of the mind are spilling
a dripping canvas at your loss.
confederate rounds wing through the air,
burning-turning into thoughts.
there’s an art to maiming
(a shifty little jump across)
part guerrilla warfare,
skinning helps you bear His cross.
within custom we are searching,
faithful children wander- lost
with dusty bones, we aim to cross
the valley of darkness
from where we fought
left alone to late-night brooding,
we’re chained and sacred slaves
left alone with Your heavenly lot,