deeper
soul might kill us. deeper virtue might hurt us. so many crosswise strings.
smaze
fills the skies. undercurrents are flooding the sanctum. it’s been confusing,
pleasure overloaded, a screaming sweet tooth.
it
should be sugarcane, atop candy yams, poured over with syrup.
no
complaints. it seems irregular. as wondering what many perceive. such as
believing just because: if black, than x, if Muslim, than y—most might feel
uncomfortable.
must
admit presumptions—nevertheless, they remain shielded, it may still hinder
understanding, it may still prevent the furthest reach.
so
comical, so cosmic, often hard to dissociate; dusty thoughts, dormant beliefs,
boundless, tough, a free thinker.
none
prevail in presuppositions. many prevail in pre-thoughts. most will alienate
much of what’s misunderstood.
excluding
piety, for one is impious, so, it can’t be.
the
ram’s horn sits on concrete. a mask is aside it. there’s a lamb, refusing to be
silent. maybe spotless, maybe filled with mites, the sacrifice has come.
cradled
stars, stillborn anxieties, much will go unexamined. someone will read a chart,
it will say many assessments, nothing will be determined. in knowing one, one
is counted on, as dependable, so what’s said is infallible. (sound familiar?)
