Emerging as something

they had never been

about to become prophets

the big trees would not fall

their via dolorosa planted

along forest lanes matted

with sawdust and leaves

leading to rock face and wrens

waterfalls hissed at the sun

like sinners bound

to silver idols within

When I heard the trees

lament their fiery climes

and the faithless creatures

of the woods

whose passions overflowed

in anger and lust

seeping out like sap

from a mortal wound

I walked head down

past the dilapidated cabin

past the ax head in the lane

past silver jays skittering

at my approach

in their wings

echoes of sublimity

drum beats

of grief and loss

I hardened my heart

the way forward

pushed ahead

as much as

the way back

pushed back

each path leading

to a land

where prophets

shall be honored

by their own

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