moving to Easter Island

Christ you're holy, aren't you?
Sleeping in that aura of righteousness,

you're so heavy with your pompous pregnant pauses
and philosophical erudition
the bedrock breaks beneath you.

This is why I eyeless-stare
from where my soul should be
to where your soul is not.

Ask me anything, but remember
always remember, my igneous silence is not an indictment of you

I am not so pious either,
that you should ever mistake it for reverence
or prayer.

I look out from this barren island
where i learned how to roll on logs
where i learned how to dance in thanksgiving

I gaze
not away from you
but toward my destiny.