Listen

Power shouts, 

slams the door,

stomps its feet,

runs up the score

in search of some

kind of continuity,

some proclamation

of decisive victory,

raging louder as

its grip weakens,

clawing sentences

about permanence

into sand while air

grows stale around it.

Nothing expands by 

force forever.

The earth calls everything 

back eventually. 

Such is gravity. 

Such is grave.

Such is the prophet’s choice

between swords or 

plowshare blades.

Wisdom waits, reshapes,

adapts, endures, quietly

undermining hierarchy 

through alignment 

with a future harvest.

Friend, look again.

Stubbornly, love is planting seeds

instead of building monuments.