Set the Night Singing #2.24
Updated: Oct 14
It takes great wisdom –
to fathom truth and parse the lies
in every quarter thriving.
With gentle love,
how soft they speak
who spin the lies week after week –
lies from one small pond, bubbling.
Saint bodies bleeding,
soaked with tears
inspire flight, invoke deep fears –
a cross hangs, shadows casting.
The highest art is
how to bear
great suffering, and to compare
what agony each is shouldering.
Suppressing what it means
the aim is to erase the me –
in angst, suffocating.
To worship pain
and poverty –
does no one have the spine to see,
these are the fruits of idling?
Truth whispers not
in shades of pain,
but drives in droves of sunlit rain!
Stay not in shadows thickening.
If pain on Earth
we each could ease
dead gods we would not need appease,
nor found hope on their quickening.
Take no cross. Scorn
the victim's cap.
Take up the book! The Sail! The Map!
and chase horizons broadening.