Slaver

The blood upon my hands, congealed and iris dark Stares up at my face with a gaze as deep as Gods A hymn dies in my throat and I feel distant from my body And cold as death inside A people chained and bound were taken from their country And transformed overnight into homeless, beaten cogs Rough hands on the wheel, crossing the Atlantic Riding westward to the sugarcane plantations As the shadow of the cross falls across the alter The bread looks just like flesh and the wine resembles blood As I watch the faithful feeding I cannot understand All this hunger for empire, or the heart of any man And the sermon sinks like stone, its words are like a plumb-line Tied around my tongue and pulling everything inside Is it my hands around the wheel, crossing the Atlantic Riding westwards towards the sugarcane plantations?