Epistle I - the Mustang

(I) I am the nomad traversing the frontiers a desert cemetery serving as a basin for vipers waiting to spread their venomous message and snip away at the fragile thread that serves as my tightrope (II) As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death and crawl closer to the mouth of hell I toss pages of scripture between those honeydew lips each word a boxer’s right hook a scimitar slash that severs the clinging clots choking my arterials (III) For, it is written The man that calls upon Christ shall be spared from having the noose fastened firm around his neck (IV) Whom shall I fear? with the Sheppard by my side, the sourness of poverty is sweeter than Persian sherbet (V) Whom shall I fear? through Christ, the Antarctic gale-force winds of loneliness that blistered my cracking visage is a mild breeze that sterilizes the wounds left behind by the wages of Pauline transgression (VI) You hoist me towards the promised pastures where I roam like a mustang galloping atop the mountaintop unbounded by the weight of the world’s chastisement