Be Reavers

The mere woods wander
emerge, planless, 
to a blossom,
a season,
a pause,
with and without reverence;

stories are Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs
and the narrator is hungry;

sweat shined Abraham's brow
and Isaac didn't learn paternal trust;

spirits demand belief
no matter how secular;

I am fear's glove
and a worn-out hand;

the return, the last scupper,
drains our ship by design
and our minds are fealty engines
with loyal warship dreams;

can this be by choice or nature;
false questions framed by semicolons;

and one must become an observer,
a subject,
and all the while
hold up your cup of rancid blood
and drink to every crime.

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