The Gospel, The Dharma, And The Breath Poem by Eric Cockrell

the darkened streets
haunt and whisper,
lights come and go,
eternity breaks the glass.

and right and wrong,
frozen on the ground...
smokestacks, abandoned cars,
vacant buildings ran by rats.

the hungry hand,
the mouth of poverty.
the addict's needle,
the body in the alley.

the woman beaten,
her face blackened and bloody.
the click of the hammer
on an empty chamber.

and the houses beckon,
with lighted rooms
where shadows move in
a most familiar way.

the smell of food,
and the warmth contained...
never quite reaching
the children sleeping

in the back of the car.
the churches gone dark,
no sound, no action.
down the street the bars

light up the night.
at a corner table,
he sits alone with a drink...
and a book he just opened...

he writes with a pen,
sure that no one can see:
we are the gospel,
we are the dharma...

we died on the cross,
we gave up our kingdoms.
we are the healers,
but the killers...

we are the medicine,
and yet the guns.
we are the hand dipped
in the infected wound...

and yet we are the giver
of that very wound...
both the breath of Satan,
and the breath of God!

from our knees we learn
the gift of flight!