You are a land promised.
A land I wish to visit again.
The voices I hear are not my own.
I remember driving you back at night.
Sitting in the car and listening to the frogs.
How waiting for you always filled me up.
You are a land of promise and prosperity.
A land small children laugh and play in.
The voices we hear are not in our own heads.
I see you from across the room.
Light falls around you like bayonets.
The stand we take must be our own.
October 13, 2008 11:05 PM