Bloody footprints imprinted on
the tracks. You need to bleed.
Scrape your feet against the wood,
splinters merging with flesh.
Jesus bled for me. Now you must bleed for me.
Gentile Jesus.
Weeds growing between
the rocks, curled round railroad spikes.
Your lucky they don’t take that spike to your brain.
They used to do so to calm the emotions of the mad.
We are all mad now.
Gentile Jesus.
No one cares for your land.
They fly as high as the cardinal above you.
No smoke from the train car to bother them
on high, tracks covered in rost.
Get the metal in your blood.
Leave a Reply