the seeds of forgiveness, get scattered on rocks

the ocean beneath us, is a cauldron of fire

melting, razor ice, we skate on

our infernal desire

the chorus of the elements, churns

like a lake, disturbed, by an invisible force

with citizens, in rebellion, against gods, of the State

gods, of little minds.

a man waits

a most dangerous man

and he appears to be

a pleasant peasant

a pheasant, some bird who minds its own business

pecking for worms, not disturbing his flocks

whose name, nobody knows

it’s a Latin derivation, a dead name

he doesn’t threaten

or discuss

docile, dependable

a lover of nature

renewed, under morning trees

there’s a vicious peace, about him

a violent calm,

though his violence, is his own, he does not belong

to the hordes of humanity

he was not convinced to be this way

pulled out of rhetoric, by disgust

put into, his own

if writing poetry, is madness

this man, is four perfect lines

nine perfect words

he says to himself, like the Lord’s Prayer

but he doesn’t ask to be delivered

because he will write his future

like a wind blowing, across the oceanic

Sea life scatters, the water burns

his name, is no name

a force

beyond, fire and water.