Running.

I write in tongues
subjected to the faith
of faithless zealots
hurtling towards
the ramparts of a shining
sea of endless flames
of solidarity.

There is no justification
in the spew of venom
that surrounds us,
no reason to be lax.
And yet we stand,
unable to depart
and walk away,
berated for our own
inborn beliefs.

It drives the wilted
into seclusion,
hermitage a last resort
for mothers and children alike.
We run from hate
to make a stand
and face the rage
perpetuated by
mindless lemmings.

Why do we shed tears
hot and salty, painful,
for those who drive the knife
the deepest into the wound?
Perhaps because
the will never understand,
or perhaps we weep
in tired desperation,
knowing what we
cannot ever change.

KC