Bishop's Karma

Ash makes the water muddy in this crescent of a town,
The blood of memory pooling around the edges and the rubble.
It's the memory that feeds the dilemma as the ghosts of notes float around while
The water takes over like you wouldn't believe--
And this is a dry heat, too, for here, the air thick as molasses, lungs unable to breathe.
On the rooftops there's writing in tape calling out for Jesus, professing faith;
It's something of which I can't conceive--
Nature's the God of this town, choking and breeding.
I say the Holy Spirits are all woven together and they are they and you--and I, a consecrated meeting.
We're all drowned out and the crescent crumbles under the burden of times yet unperceived.
Here, the marshes dream achingly of regeneration,
They're in synch with the people, praying for Amazing Grace—

A futile inclination because
The prayer's shut out—

I hear them screaming, instead,
"I seen the Devil come down like he own the place."