Ragged Maps

I'm headed to the mountains—
where everything is pure and green—
where I dissolve into the heart of something celestial
of patient earth brushed with vibrant hues
layered with endless shapes, sounds, and scents
where God does not erect borders to life
or view colors of people—lines carving nations
or qualify our sacred diversity or opportunities
or empower stained prides in leaves of gold

Yet we still cling to these ragged maps of division
upon globes colored by gradations of power
where hate sows the seeds of conflict and war
where noise scatters dissonance into desolation
and we argue endlessly in the dim corridors
of catacombs carved by our own political unrest
until I’m compelled to ask one solitary—stark question
deep within the hallowed sanctums of my spiritual
confessional—    What would Jesus do?

His maps should be my maps—my compass
tracing holier lines far beyond pins of doubt
where families sing within villages of promise
across lands flowing with crystal living waters
where every field stretches lush and abundant
where there are no more lines plotted by time
and no time is smudged in inks of dark fear

As I dream of eventually crossing this ridgeline
I see families smiling atop vast mountains of peace