When I was a child, I talked of childish
things and so believed everything I was
told, faith a matter of trusting all I
had to do was ask, no idea that love
is not a blanket but instead the will
to survive the clashing gongs and symbols,
the prophesies that no one believes, the
mysteries that so attract because they
cannot be resolved. Love is moving a
mountain grain by grain, all alone and in
the sun, from here to there for nothing, and
afterwards giving away your sandwich
or home, even laying down that body
in pity for someone to climb in the
gutter with pride, pomposity on its
back like the rest of the world and looking
at the heavens. I am sorry I was
so rude. I was seeking my own interests,
as impatient and injured as the sky
before a storm, quick to flare like lightening
over the fields, rejoicing in wrong,
bearing my triad on my back, hope and
faith the weaker legs of the stool, seeing
only indistinctly with the vision
of a man surrounded by foolish things.
