Flint

We've seen a little pain,

yellow McDonald's wrappers

more numerous than fish,

a missing row of crosses

aside the camouflaged road.

His Face set as flint

toward a new Jerusalem,

unarmoured innocents

slaughtered behind polling booth curtains.

The crusade's a broken record

written in a half language

shy of troublesome vowels.

A cup of water to the least of these

a silent, hidden page,

awaiting ink.

I tried tattooing scriptures

on my arms, but its the registered

heart that tells.

A pen is only mightier

than the sword

if you can read.