Many days
I am the one to have
Shattered truths hissed and
Licked into my ears while I lay
Writhing on the hard cold stone
Of the temple floor and, when waking,
I bellow my plague of veracity to those
People in the city. My head bowed with
The celestial compulsion, with the
Mistakes of a thousand years
Resting on the back of
My neck. My mouth
Gaping, wide and
Open - silently
Screaming
Futures.
But on
Those days
I am also
The nonbelievers.

I raise my head.
And one day
When the grief
Unfolds
Within my own
Walls I
Will have to
Begin again.

Green, brown, auburn stained
Mud, paint, evil raised.
A hand, grasping hand
lurched out of meaning.
Dead wood, wrong time,
given and gives no reason.
What is object without materiality?
What is natural without
Raw beings, bled straight from earth,
Nothing without our heavy hand
To drag them from
Eternal non-existence and into
Being. Into Matter.