Crossroad Poem by Ian Keenan

Your time spent,
Intentions at the
Breaker's yard,
The vagrant hand of retribution
Picking.

This was your staff,
Broken,
This your bible,
Ashes,
Your ways twisted,
You sit,
Dispossessed.

In crowded rooms among the smoke
The colours move and fade;
Behind her head
All bunting at the
Closing hour;

And you proclaimed solutions
Numberless of torments
Seen in eyes;
The devils
Excorcised by fiery tongue,
And blood felt incantations
Tore confessions from their
Parted lips;
And consummation made a
God of you.

Days drifting by
On days,
What choice between
Prophet and ragman?
Between the hills
That come and go in dreams,
And life and death that
Balance in the valley?