A line is crossed.
A line is crossed, unnoticed by command
But photographed in fame’s amoral flash.
Bodies piled, trophy game atop which rests
One boot; smiles of shy surprise, unabashed.
Another line and wilderness surrounds
Us, humid aisles where everything’s displayed.
Conscripted to absolve our choices God
Deserts to find a new identity.
We bushwhack through thick scrub, directionless;
The way’s degraded, markers overgrown.
Where filthy water swamps the lowest place
We lost crusaders kneel, and choke it down.