My Grave

The situation is grave,

The vultures encircle my predicament,

Hyenas pack around my fear, 

I hold on to myself dear.

The mobs have lit their torches, 

The darkness yet prevails,

If I could set to pyre their hatred,

It may shed some light;

Or perhaps cremate my own dogma,

The acrid smell of flesh 

Shall sate their belief.

I can choose silence,

Migrate or subjugate,

I am not sure my belief 

Will overcome my wisdom,

The arguments and defiance 

Shall merely sharpen my edge,

I shall stand tall and in the outbursts, 

Cleanse my divide and arise.