on waking up t(h)ree ..

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The kind of “living” I’ve been raised to have

by who I’m following as baby does

apparent through the house as jobs are nav-

-igated to make home as bees would, buzz…

-ing in their work determined by the smell

of their own queen who sets the hive to make

the honey and the comb that’s home, and well…

I’m called and have responded. I am baked.

The heat of furnace melts the dross away.

The “washing” ’s for the core of who we are;

a firey-wind, a dove of flame I’d say.

And crucifying old self is the start.

Unless you take your own cross up and walk

with me to killing place of your own hopes,

you’ll miss the shots you make, or else you’ll balk

and miss the perpe-traitor like the dopes

who run from death and suffering and pain,

as though they were the worst things to occur.

Here fables are what help us see again:

The zombie story. Humans must deter

and try to kill all zombies off - to stop

the spread of them, but often  one escapes 

detection. In “remission” at the top

is the chief hunter. One is all it takes.

My Empire has a cell with zombie “life”

infecting it; of 30 trillion lives

one must be killed, then let God over strife 

raise it, as child of God who’s very wise.

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