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For Them That Know Not

I stand in the Valley of Vision—  

once the plains of derision.  

Chill wind cuts through my coat,  

rough stones shift beneath my boots,  

distant thunder thrums a warning.  

A raven’s caw splits the hush  

as shadows stretch across blood-stained earth.  

This valley tears at my bosom,  

grief’s tethered claws holding fast.  

Your cup of venom spins me dizzy—  

bitter draught flooding my senses.  

Beyond, a lone tower quivers  

in moonlight—its stones washed clean  

by tides of exile, never to rise again.  

Here two men hang from the same tree:  

one curses his fate,  

the other bows to silent condemnation.  

No mercy breathes in this place—  

hope felled by a pinpoint bombardment,  

darkness draping the plain.  

Yet even here,  

where vision falters,  

I wait for dawn’s deliverance,  

for light to smite  

the wanderlust of hope.