Wilderness

What if the altar was at the core of the earth?

Not the pulpit in churches designed by blood and corpses.

What if the stars, the moon, and the sun

were the guiding lights, a compass leading me to self?

What if we didn’t need any maps or atlases?

What if, when the wind blew, it whispered truth,

guided by the waving grass and leaves,

leading me to salvation?

What if the sky was telling me there's hope

beyond the promised damnation,

because it couldn't be a promised land,

when I am the earth whose drums beat

of heartaches, lost in cries and ancient wisdom?

What if the trees were my teachers,

their roots tangled deep in the wisdom of time,

their leaves fluttering in sacred language,

telling stories the world forgot?

What if the sun was my preacher,

shining without judgment,

warming my soul with truth untold?

What if the earth was my scripture,

written in the veins of every stone,

every river, every mountain?

What if salvation wasn’t found in rituals,

but in the dance of the wind,

the song of the rain,

the pulse of the earth beneath my feet?

What if the serpent was the so-called God’s rod?

For she hears and feels everything before it happens,

my protector, slithering through the depths of truth.

What if through the owl's eyes,

I should look to see the danger that lies ahead?

What if the cats—black or otherwise—

weren’t as evil as they were depicted,

but were the ones who told me what I needed to hear?

What if the sheep were never lost,

never in need of a shepherd?

What if they were my compass,

leading me through fields unknown,

guiding me to places only the brave dare walk?

What if the chickens never told us it was time to rise—

would we have known when to rise?

What if the dogs never howled—

would we have known when to flee?

What if the birds never sang their morning song,

would the sun have still known to shine?

What if the wolves never cried out at night—

would we have known when to mourn?

What if the earth itself was my guide,

the wind my map,

the trees my ancestors speaking through their leaves,

and the moon—my protector,

illuminating the path I’m meant to walk?

What if ancestors weren’t the dead,

but those whose spirits we still carry?

Helping us find roots,

linking back into the beginning of all time,

when we internalize or search for truth or a god.

What if the bones could speak,

but were rendered mute beneath the caves and dungeons?

What if the blood could trace back into time,

whence before all hell broke loose?

What if the brain was a tool to be used—

but they crippled us mentally,

bending our thoughts to fit their mold?

What if the heart knew no love,

but had traces of the truth,

waiting to be uncovered?

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