Counted cultures are aware,
and you can see through fabric’s
sure fire way
Are we awake,
am I awake?
I pray for our
sainthood to be enough to save us
from this steeping sin.
We’re steeped within.
only mere vacancies of wisdom and understanding.
Where hearts pour out.
You’ve held onto this paper,
for so many years,
even though it’s only electronic.
The first spark of our reignition,
our new religion,
of Plato’s cave’s condensation.
No more muses.
Steeped in the firmament of Heaven,
let my gaze
be to thee,
if only as a cerebral hemorrhage.
And our child walks alone,
in the midst of dragons,
as in the bog of eternal stench;