Not Written by a Victim

neither gender nor scars
Dictate these words to you,
All of you (the humble & gullible; the fiery & guilty)

You saw a young child wander down the rail lines.
Overhead, a flock of sparrows shot across steel gray skies,
pursuing a suspected American crow.

There is no train coming.

You cross the tracks gently, you think, to save your shocks, taking a quick,  calculated glance at the child, further down the tracks,
under the cloud of warring feathers.

For the very first time, you notice this child isn't a child at all
but a wise old soul
choosing not to be a victim
of any particular railroaded solutions.

You've seen him before,
walking along the river
or across the seashore
at the foot of the coastal mountain range.

How could this be?
He must be at least as old as you are.
Spring, summer, autumn. Spring, summer, autumn.
How many have passed?

Very Deja Vu, that.

At the intersection,
a crow flies towards the ground
to tear at some dead thing,
molded by the tread of a semi-rig.

Time flies and the crow flies
and the light changes.

You take a right 
out of the corner of your eye,
you can't help but noticing
that Jesus Christ is healing the blind
and raising the dead.

Since all literature is literature,
you notice every phonebook
is a bible and every prayer
is a song,
written from the very beginning of time.

The skies open up.
The rain comes down.
Where shall you go?
Will you choose
Or have the choice
Made for you?