A New Parable

It’s a heavy burden, to decide

how much meaning to give a day,

to discern whether time is sand

slipping through fingers

or glass shredding skin. 

Yes, I’ve heard the stories – 

virgins with no oil, 

servant with booze on his breath 

and blood on his knuckles – 

but have you heard the one where bombs

rain like sulfur from the sky,

where the earth parches and shrivels,

where we turn ourselves inside out

and turn each other into mirrors,

and all the while a man walks quietly

and watches a bird flitter between branches

as dusk begins its steady march,

wondering if anyone is coming to take 

our bleeding hands, or if it’s just us,

these birds, this fire, that swelling darkness?