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the wasteland

this poem is inspired, or perhaps the tragic consequence of, reading the acts of the apostles. trying to imagine some way in which those stories could possibly be helpful, when my first reaction is the melancholy of discovering a beautifully realized fantasy world, which you adore but know you could never live in.
somewhere between the gate called beautiful where the lame man walked and the day called wonderful when the last tear is dried and the dancing starts wanders a people who tell stories of wind filling a room with fire they stumble through a wasteland the world rendered scorched and barren by the stories of life so rich that everything within reach is withered by the words it is a vast desert dotted with the occasional insufficient oasis spaced slightly too far apart yes there is a river, but a river of justice running so wide and deep they dip their hands in for cooling and it runs through their fingers dry pebbles and dust surrounded by a freedom so boundless that the horizon a life's walk away seems a prison in perspective these stories too beautiful for words a hope too hungry for the fuel of a beated heart or even all hearts together no lament deep enough to fill the chasm between the utterance which shakes the pillars of creation and the timid noises which they hope, at best, will not spend their brief span echoing as lies yet still they sing with a joy unjustified drink deep when water can be found carrying what extra they can shoulder should they stumble upon someone thirsty leaving footprints, impressions of truth seedlings of green sprouting in the places where they strode and swung their weight forwards step by step they write across the wasteland a version of the story which names the heartless desert as un-truth