by Zach Kincaid

Release a trial balloon
so we can gauge how soon
all these lies transition into truth
that finds a home in ears that can’t hear
and keep itching and itching with fear.

Will the trial die?
Will those with opinions bother to opine?
Will the defiant even remotely promote an outcry?
Will they raise up their swords to stab at the question why?

The wise are led
to the place goats get fed,
where the broad road opens up
from the way called narrow,
where his eyes leave helpless sparrows.

Will the people of God even care?
Will those preachers in authority even dare?
Will the saints go marching on among the tares?
Will they realize Hebrew’s cloud means skies are never fair?

Maybe mask your belief in fears of health as chief,
so you can feed the beast
until it’s fat from this dark feast,
the kind prepared in the middle of enemies
in his lonely valley where death deceives.

We’ve toasted our own victory
cursed rod and staff in exchange for a key
not to ethereal gates or some such lost idea
but rather in the crowd called sane, safe and sound,
medicated, vaccinated and far from any crucified clown.