Calvary/Cavalry

A sword, Cavalry born,
buried in sliver strands
of buffalo grass.  Fallen,
from a running soldier's hand,
relaxed in death,
a self appointed bullet ,
lodged in a face
down, buried in a rutted gully,
foreshadowed
2000 years before.

A man of Custer's 7th  cavalry
 with man's 2 edge sword.
Blood rusted in prairie dirt,
forgotten by time
and found by a wayward sheep herder,
Wild Uncle Bill's sword.

The heft of two edged swords
cleaves joints, marrow, arrogance, greed,
sinews of sin- dissected
in a thrust-
a parry-
a jab.
Separating  the sin from self,
flesh from bone.
Just as the heft of God's Word
is piercing and discerning thoughts- intentions.
Stripping all pretense from our souls.

We are the dead on the prairie.
Our bodies bleed out, cradled
in the soft embrace of greasy grass.
The dead pass way,
the sword has done it's job.
The words remains.

We can do nothing for ourselves.
We are the sheep upon the hill,
stumbling over half buried swords
and artifacts of ancient battles.
Losing ourselves in canyon brush,
juicy bits we spy on other sides of fence.

We are the one the the shepherd breaks
to keep us from ourselves.