One Nineteen

A king reaches for the alphabet
And the child of a song is born.

The child opens eyes of a stranger
And fixes themselves on obedience.
The path it follows strays, even
For those who’ve forgotten fear.

Greatness is what it knows
But what it can’t hear
(It discovered delight is inevitable
And justice is found in the mouth).

Knowledge is in the hands which
The song-child leaves
Marks in when it crawls,
Like a nomad with nowhere to go.

It crawls with its flesh open
Pulsing with raw awe thicker than
Quiet gold, collecting footsteps that
Only know how to sink.

It’s the only reason in the world
That can never be touched
Or understood like suffering
And a veering salvation.

The child lies down and wonders
Silent, as if trying to explain a
Yawn to a restless world
Lost in a sea of zeal.


Blah blah blah

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