The Slow Feast

Any semblance of waking life in you to push?
Damned by grave hands if the will is not strung?
Maybe a playground is in you to find
with a hide and go seek orient of the mind?
Chance there is hunger way deep in the billows
your tummy will nudge you in sleep under pillows?
Worthless adventure it runs away home in retreat for the answer that sinks to the bone.
Grace by the side of all struggle and test.
Beats like reprising the heart in your chest.
Greater by means if the fall of the land is the slow feast of fascists in crooked demand.
Home is the base of all strength and all fear
and we meet it so sparingly drug out through treacherous paces and pulls at the stomach of sacrifice holding up greatly successors of edifice, brutal and brave we are one every minute if only we sung like the breeze when we're in it.