Rant A book opens,  spilling
all the nothing.
Fire, all fire, fire
and ice, tree
and fern.  Many souls
stick to the
ground; their
home.  The purple
white redness
comes and goes,
painting the sky with
sorrowful gifts.
All is one, one is
all.

A triangle has a set of stones,
calling, begging for mercy, wishing
the dark light could tell what
is in the sky.  Red, blue, dark
and purple, living, growing,
swelling, erupting, exploding.
Purple, white human. Never
lost, never found.  Going towards
all that is frightfully
obviously gone.

I hold a piece of light in my hand.
Small, tiny, iradescent fragment
of sin.  All hope, one place.
Go on, and on, and on, silver,
golden, dark.  Secular pride
taking all risks in
solving the mystery
of a thousand eyes,
raving with all joy
and mad contentment,
lifting high, so high,
falling, dirt, filth, all
the many blessings of the men
who take this piece of light and shed their tears
for evermore.

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