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The Exile has a Death Sentence

A minority to minorities
waiting for our fountain
holding our heads up
while rain is pouring down
our drowning is a drought
our delusion is ethereal doubt
Yet, like Noah, we’ll ride the ark
and the rest will be water-boarded upon the earth.

A harvest to harvesters-
waiting for table scraps
our hands are cupped
we’ll dine when we’ve supped
our feast is a fast
our famine is a flash
Yet, like the Prodigal, you’ll welcome me home
and the rest will starve upon the earth.

The existential has a death sentence-
the exile has life’s repentance.

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About R. Ward

A husband, father, teacher, and struggling man of God.

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