Lubrication

Slithering through dull blades of grass.

The oil of holy peace,

that lubricates the people,

of one mind all bodies each,

carrying its load right through,

the moments of available light,

and sometimes mostly darkness,

when death without a whisper,

gives life of the eternal sort,

percolating a gift through time,

to leave sweet fragrances in the air,

masking the stench of a polluted flesh,

the kind needing more than it can have,

yes death comes and yes it dwells,

forever out of sight and out of view,

but always just a hairs width away,

and continuously hungry for more,

more than a body willingly gives,

burdening a polluted flesh,

billowing with hissing fire,

squealing like a dry blade,

striking a stone of holy justice,

throwing sparks of life's glory.