Death By Disagreement

We didn’t see it coming—our death
by disagreement—could not concur
to build up or tear down. So
we gave up on our labors,
cursed our dying saviors,
packed the bags and turned the car around.

We left a cairn to our dispute:
bricks unused and neatly waiting,
neatly sitting in their stacks in quietude.
They eyed our cold defiance and
the looming clouds of violence;
They glared at us in speechless rectitude.

We plunged our leaking pitchers into
murky broken cisterns then
washed our wounds beside the bitter
well. We rubbed our chafing hands
one against the other. A crooked,
stiff and silent spirit fell.

We diminished peace and wisdom
like the leaving out from Eden left
a rotting core of too-much-knowledge fruit.
The temptation, when it rose,
hit us squarely in the nose. Awful
be-less-human freedom set its root.

We were quick to take no action and
the tree of satisfaction, though
eager to show bloom did not produce.
We bit down on ripe deceit,
brushed aside the harvest wheat;
from our chins ran mingled tears and juice.

“You will not die,” the clever words by which
we suddenly drew swords. Bitter
grief did not regain the loss of life.
As builders we despised the tested
stone that, for our lives, has become the
shelter stone against all strife.