Reade Mccardell Tendon
There's a man (if you can call him a man)
Lives on an island by himself with only the birds and the Lord to talk to
Roughly thirty feet tall without a scrap of skin at all
And a smile - give you nightmares for a month
His lidless eyes have seen unthinkable things
Castaways crushed by his own hands
He saw no difference between them and the peccaries
Sun-bleached and painted their bones
He didn't see it as a crime
He didn't know
He didn't know
So the Lord has a place for him
A little villa in heaven where he can press his own oil and make pottery
There he'll have people to love
A suit of beautiful skin to dress the wound his earthly life had been
