Humelity
The Lord has tore me down.
My knees lick the dirt;
spiraling, I crawl from a high trench
dug with a rodomontade mouth.
The rocks stacked in insolence are now rubble
and are lapped by kneeling blood.
Although I am made low
and my fingernails scratch the earth
kissing my knees, I hallow the Lord
with my head meekly raise and eyes in the sun,
for my mouth has been scoured by blooded mud
spilled for me to grovel thorough
that the ablution of His hands and robe may
silence my lips and tongue and teeth from insipid pretensions.
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