This bull did not choose
the rope in my hand,
this road to record its journey.
Also not chosen,
the noose woven of murdered hair and
desecrated bed cloth. This adornment.
This herd did not choose
its smoke grave. Yet here,
gathered they taste the blade.
We rode to this tent on their backs,
keeping our heads above the flood's still hands.
It is in the waiting that we drown.
Hush and murmur scuttle across the hive.
Words of some devout caught a glimpse
through the curtains who mark holiness.
The high priest on Isaac's borrowed bed,
blood exposed and boiling on his skin,
His last breaths fanning the flames.
I strain my ears to see closer, blinded by
growing cacophony of entitlement, leaving,
future plans of pilgrims obstinate for atonement.
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