Years pass in limbo—trying to catch sunshine. We’ve
seen humility, pots filled with expectation, waterfalls by insistence; never as
we say, emotional lines, better, the longest narratives in time. The motive is
fear, just because, by countenance to have offended; keys to his lamp, seated
in sourness, walking circles in a box—many prefer it that way. Manna mornings,
major faith, filled with fury—amazed by how belief operates. Grapevines early
evening, silken warms, rife with heart-shaping and misidentification. The line
is thin, trying for truth, lacking some element—the dearth of humanity,
supporting logic, wondering too soon—like the infant prophet. Stomach pains,
mind growth, by dreams to keep kicking rocks. By a dusky sky, capturing a glint,
holding to one as flawed as time—like religious reverberation.
