Ended? Dead? How can that be?
The worlds we've created:
The passion born of the wood of the cross:
The shine of the stars? The flow of the river?

Is that what has become of me—of us?
What of all the life?
What of the breath that still roars within me?
What of our angels? Of our dancing hearts?

Who will condemn and board up the houses we have built?
What of our villages of joy and peace
Where the kids are safe to play in the streets,
 And our hearts are too?

What sort of world would this be
With rivers left un-splashed in,
Haystacks left un-jumped on,
Rainbows left un-treaded upon,

By the worthy feet of soul-mates?
Companions: Dancing in gold‑filled pots of redemption?
Is this the question before the court today?
For I object on grounds that I could not survive

If they burned my glory down,
Took away my hope—our hope
In the cross, the river, and the breath.
Ended? Dead? As if!!!