After the murders and fires
had cleared the land,
I was strenuously invited
by the arsonists and killers
to enter
Their House
and stay.
I looked in through
the back door —
the only one open to me —
at stains,
smoke-sullied windows,
a clutter of weapons
and waste,
then turned back toward
the ruins of the countryside
where green and gold
were preparing to run riot
after timid beginnings.
From inside they called after me
with hope and threats
as I walked
a good distance from
Their House
and began to tend
to wounded land
and water, doing
what I could do,
knowing what was to come
would likely take me
but would still be better than
how I would die
in Their House.
