Is this not prayer?
is this tool not the tool I hoped for? The pen
filled by the ever-flowing flowery ink
that re-news old knowns
left to ripen under bald and hoary heads
in stoney hearts softened by seventy years worth
of salty tears
and sad songs
"great was the number of them,
wombed ones all, who sang of the victory to be"
Miriam and Hannah, Deborah and Jael, who
retold those tales by the rivers of Babylon?
And who fueled the furnace seven times hotter,
to signal the unbelivable fourth.
being likend unto the son of god, though the
lacking evidence that the likeness can be reproved.
This magi-tech converged from all the poetic,
ethos of logo marks making proper
ification of a rythm's
un legit singin' in public,
on the corner, wit' Willie and the po'boys
beat me daddy six t' the bar---
--- those ethnic poundings on my skull,
--- send those feelings, urging, grow grow grow
--- 'til the roofs cain't hold hope in
hear come them ol' time thought cops,
wee gray dominees preparing dominoes for
dominos are never stood to stand, but to fall
touching one, touching one, touching one
the waiting is over, this is the time
to start all over.
A traditional hermit's prayer found
scratched on the inner edge of my skull when I had my wisdom teeth replaced so I could chew the meat of the gospel dried to stone.
Belive, beliv and believe are ligit by right, but not same same, don't blame me.