Message from a Golden Calf

This hill I stand
(positioned) on top of is
a gloriless place
except for my self
self-helped here: there
but for the Grace of God (go I)
free'd from the grass and guns
tacking down the blood drunk slopes
of the smoke choked valley below.

The valley of death and dolls
home to those (whose hearts and minds are grey
and soft as ash)
who I am sorry for
but can not save but pray for
with strictness bright as my gold sheen
that blinds all desparate climbers
from their way to me
from getting to me
kneeling by me
getting from me
what I am charged to guard.

I stand, one of millions, like me
on a million hills surrounding
all that doesn't matter any more:
what has not risen here that will remain
where it will die because
it must die, because, it is dead, because
it can not help itself.

Up here, the voice of God is a light
that shoots swiftly through the hills
and glances from every calf
on every hill to every next calf
on every next hill, leaping like a laser
from one calf to the other calf
and back round again
in a great closed ring
that rings so loudly it deafens
the pinned ear of the valley
to the voices of the clouds.

The language of the Golden Calves is that light.
We are praying to eachother of that voice.
We are telling eachother to hold still.
We are held upright by that voice.
We will not topple from these hills
as long as that voice moves through us
and keeps the hungry mouths
of the drouthy clouds above
forever shut with its bright noise.