There is
no roar like the roar
of those who think they have found
the very same ground
underscored by prophets before.
They will press the heads of dissenters
beneath the topsoil to the clay
and have them confess away every
stray inch of declination from the mean.
The averages were thought out long in advance
and the guardrails attached, the blinders worn like
eye-patches, and the wailing over sins of those not yet
in the arc of the square.
They prophesy hardpan while the
Spirit is breath and wind.
There is no sigh like the sigh
of those who, true and unloud,
sing the very same song
scored by the son of god alone.
They will peek their heads behind the clouds,
above the forested hillsides
and heave their panic away, their pain
inches from coordinates left by men.
The welling and weeping were released in sand
and sky, the sails swollen with wind, eye to eye,
turning by starlit notions, navigating through the slight
deviations of joy.
They prophesy feasting while the
lines form, spiral and more.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Feel free to comment, I'm always always interested, and so are others.