Soil

Soil is rich when its heavy with seasons, it clings
To all of its matter, like faith that nothing’s forgotten
Small men are given the privilege to know what this means
That here is a power to throw off the tyrant and bring low the mightiest kings
This, an eventual solace for us, the downtrodden

 Soil that is burdened with blood, its Heaven’s verse sings
Of revels in which our strange God finds mysterious pleasure
The purest in mind recoil from such visceral things
For here there are matters that raise up its stenches and make Him unfit for a King
And are far too vile and unclean for our Gnostics to measure

Soil is richest where there is a life to devour
It hungers and hunts in sequence too slow for detection
All men sense the weight and dread of its power
Here lies a path we walk upon downward that ends in the day and the hour
And minute and moment we’re martyred in awful perfection

- Kent Thomas