wise men hack through tea leaves. pitch their sermons underhanded.
then wander off. they walk divided. as one. seeking;
they merge into a path, more ocean than open road.
a Stillness, of no roman craft, but deeply engineered;
there
they gather to
disperse pamphlets,
more
steam creased and yea thick
than Answers.
they flock to a star made of Not Orchids, with brittle bones.
they sew bubbles to the souls of their feat
of Reason.
they peter pander
to the crocodiles, ticking in The River.
and salt their crumbs of wisdom
with their
tears.