Swing of sword

a pen, the spear
the sword they swear
swings here and there
in biblical times of old


but I still swing that sword
though it be laden
with curses of childhood
and strengths too weak
to word, I swing it still!


it is the sword of truths
known of my tongue
and heart and heats
the lamp I carry out
into the dark and unsaid


the letters, the lines
the pages that unfurl
from the Mecca far within
from the river running deep
coursing through the
temple's tomb where I
buried pomp and incense
and crosses that messiahs
had climbed off of when they
found no further use of


my prophets are the poets
who speak of the world poured
from their hearts, that shines
from their witness
their verse are the sacred texts
that continue to whirl
around the cycles of suns
into the eternal and inevitable