So I put my trust
in the hands
of man

Relied upon
the knowledge
he possessed

Testing the strength
of his flesh
I put the truth to rest


For what can grow
in the disidents
garden of desert ?

Void of living water . . .
only rock and sand and chert


Certainly not the truth
as it is claimed
raising their rights
to just desserts


Oh , the failings
of feeble man
Whose thirst is etched
on bone

Written with
diamond tipped desires
across their ******* of stone

For what
springs forth
from the wells of hearts ?

Torrents
of premeditated will

The defiling overreaching reasons
are passions fit to ****


Serpentine sin
denudes
the wicked heart

It twists its coils
around the truth ,

Bites !
then as soon arrived
it surly fast departs .


The heart
deceives the sightless mind
planting seeds of doubt

Producing moldy
grains of lies
decayed
within - without

How can one be
true of heart
when everything
falls apart

standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions

and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime

it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day