f=MAMA

I raise the tips of my forefinger accusingly,
raising my foe's hair,
tall as a steeple is his fear,
and I force him to wipe the slate with his sleeves,
why, o why, can't I
be a force of nature?

I see the blood trickling on the floor,
the raging white bus screaming down on the hapless innocents,
the war machine squashing the world
and with the squint of an eye,
the squeeze of a mental trigger,
clear the screen, bring forth green grass to your desert,
why, o why, can't I
be a force of nature?

When the battle lines are drawn on your mind's map,
when you spit and foam and fume
champing at the bit of your hatred
as your scaly black wings cover the day, and covet my soul,
I can calmly stare into your lidless eyes
force you down with the fearlessness of my moments,
my ignorance of death:
why, o why, can't I
be a force of nature?

When the grain silos are empty
and sand bags are buttresses for an entrenched village
where children squirm in the heat of parched days
when you rape, and plunder and run yourself into the barracks of a bare group of recruits
when your blindness plucks the eyes out of bystanders
dumb and mute witnesses to misery
when you grab a choke-hold of the world
I can slip my mind into the substance of your talons
and dissolve your grasp, weaken your venomous words, heal the gaping wounds with supreme unction
why, o why, can't I
be a force of nature?

When all and more is present
when you already hold sway
where was I?
Who am I?
Where are the arms I thought I would present to a hopeful world?
why, o why, am I
just a freak of my own nature?

What is absolution?
When we have crossed the lines of our own consciences,
and beyond those of our collective ethic,
what repentance is to be had?
Is life without external judgement?
Does it then continue unhindered by the muddy waters of absolute condemnation,
safe in the weakness of memory?
Is penance real? Does it allow us to wash our hands clean of blood and sorrow?
Who possesses the power of supreme forgiveness?
The availability of God for solace is too easy.
To sit and sob in the cradling arms of the Superior is too simple.
But it lets us live with ourselves,
because we have to accept the iniquities of our everyday lives,
the failings of our choices,
the contradictions of our actions.
Can we give in to Your powers, because we need to hear
That it will all be alright if your heart wills it,
that you can be embraced by all even after the most grievous of transgressions?

Or is forgiveness the commiseration of those who commingle in those confused waters,
and can see the reflections of others in them?