Is there no coming back,
no retreat from this landscape of ire,
this canyon of sorrow
Far beyond the limits of hope,
bordered by despairing walls,
unable to care
Except for our own kind,
our own mind-like echoes,
our mirror selves
Where every difference,
each flower of nuance,
challenges the power
Born of our righteous rage,
grown fat on bias and lies,
clothed in trappings of heaven
Armed with tools of denial,
building myriad barricades,
but never a bridge
To link us,
to lift us,
to exalt
In all that we are?
k
Unraveling Time
Desert Wind
Ploughman's Son
Ploughman King
The Year the Cloud Fell
The Spirit of Thunder
Shadow of the Storm
The Cry of the Wind
Beneath a Wounded Sky
Cryptogenesis: A Memoir
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 