The New Sundays

They carried the rocks here,
Nothing dropped from the sky
Except ten million years of rain

And all it ever did
Was cry directions
And form its accidental shapes
Oh so slowly.

Now people are out here
Hunting for new truths,
Alive with wit and guile,
Bright eyed and slightly crooked,

Walking dizzy down pathways
Just trying to regulate heartbeats
And find lost, simple thoughts
That unlock their identified traps;

They’ve been told
The fresh air helps
And epiphanies yield better
From up high.

They are dots on a hillside
Freckled under the shadows
Cast by migrating birds
And all they all really want is peace,

The ferns to stop rustling
And the bushes to settle,
The air to stay crisp
And the numbers to lessen,

Wired up to silence and clouds,
Dizzy and ready for baptisms,
They are the new Sundays,
The mass slowly scattered adrift.

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