Measurements & Doorsills

I puff a cigar, pace a rug, staring at such blemishes. The

goal was a cure, something cultic, a story to share. But

love was secret, firewood kindling an impending storm.

We forget breakfast, fast into a world, often pain and joy.

It was once so sweet and turned a soul.

Such luster, a painted virgin, to watch as a Sun falls. Our

courage, fuel, and voice.

We left the streets for a mansion, a room in a Kingdom,

face the mystic.

From dirt to flesh, and thug to monk, the world is

walking prayers. I feel the violence, affecting a young son,

running from the gateways. We shatter brackets and bad

habits, reading Aristotle. And Plato is strong with ideals,

blending into Christianity.

We sizzle in spirit, speaking in signs, clearing up the vague

waters. This is our world, cast to love, nutty about

wrongdoing.

I close, a fist full of grass, staring at garden ants.