Advent in Ferguson
The good ones wander Main Street
with hooded air and swirling leaves
at the end of the very same year.
They occupy undoing and seek
their own unresting change.
Some slump down bricks and
alleyways into digital nowhere,
into the acrid blooming of more
torrid tales. Media follow them
unscrupulously with quaking yellow glares,
pry beneath their private doors,
issue burning statements with
sizzling depictions of
lost or thwarted worlds.
Some rally in unlisted ways suffering
the darkness of amnesia and social
disgrace. Some squat down
or bend their knees to pray,
some squeeze their triggers,
some stretch above this fray
into the slant of longer battle
with deep rooted parameters
and old prophetic kings, their
hearts and shutters all a whir.
Talk of bullets in the old sky
digs new holes for a town
like the random sized holes
in leavened bread. They make
defense feel like reason
when the city's cup runs dry.
Some command the right to walk
with candles in their mouths
to make vigilance seem more real
with utter silence and finger flames
burning. We need more Spirit now
in order for us to unify,
to listen, to follow a sizzling brown star
who will emerge as promised
through the bulk of this
meandering heaven’s fog.
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