built at the water’s edge.
in nostalgic colors to remind their dwellers
of youthful summers on
visions of historical postcards.
Those who carry crosses are gathering
to wash their savior’s blood from their hands.
Like children playing at the water’s edge,
the water pools around their feet.
Mother of us all
washes away their tainted selves.
The sound of the tide
echoes the laughter
of the gulls.
Envious creatures protesting to a broken man.
He hears their complaints,
to answer them, properly.
They cannot understand his prophetic words.
He expels the air
from within him
ripples within his eyes.
The hecklers don’t understand him,
with deeper convictions.
He tosses pieces of bread
in a defeated gesture,
accepting his own fate.
The heckling clowns
gobble up the old man’s offering
of peace and reconciliation
as they fill their bellies.