By J Ann Crowder

They are the banished and branded; a convey of stateless exiles
Castoff like stones plucked into wondering oceans
Indignantly hunted
Escaped from war; warriors torn and tossed on wrathed seas
Affected émigré
A home stolen
A nation ruined
Looking inside
I too am a refugee
A castaway amidst angry, discontented waves of storm
In need of a lifeboat
Longing for a piteous hand; a prudent arm indulgent, merciful, and forebearing
In sorrow I stowed away, searching rapport upon bands stretched tight near a trapped door; I fell into a gall
I searched agile winds
As they do,
The refugees
Longing for their Ruth of benignity and goodwill
As they writhe, thus laid low upon thirsty deserts
Contused and afflicted
Should I not then seek a philanthropist’s summit?
Bending towards pity of soul
Of such is great capacity to feel another’s ache and sorrow
Thus found on Golgotha’s hill
Thus found residing in a sacred tomb
Thus found, resurrected upon a heavenly hearth, within the resounding chasms of Gathsemane
At the supper table of sinners may we abide
Where compassion resides and hearts learn such benignity of Ruth
For we are all digging our way out from identical muddy holes
Longing, with bleary eyes, to rest our heads beneath sparing skies

Interpretation is left up to the reader. Written May 11th, 2016.

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