I never would this life as told never to utter never;
maybe cold inside, filled with warmth, at contact a given perspective—to allocate
pains, some afflatus, some grave—to live in her, to feel in her, so flustered
and frustrated by her—a golden flower, the gates wide open, looking at Lazarus,
asking faith questions, examining mythos, searching for ethos, a mile away
reaching for Logos … the mountain grieving, Moses on high, as pleading for the
camp. Why has it churned us? When does it end? This tale in religiosity – these
realities we codify, an entire nation, combined of cultures, internally hating
each other—the leader of the follower, the follower of the leader, the scream
over facts, with most attacking science, to adore one and can’t touch her mind,
so indoctrinated, so long into it, to want and need with nothing coming to
fruition – this isn’t living!
