What do you know of God? A scrap
of matted wool stuck in the door-frame,
too small to trick the silver latch.
But mostly, the invisible steam
trapped in its glass pot, bubbling water
struggling to the surface; although,
your punishment will be the burn
when the lid is lifted.
So spout your proud extinction, the always
of what-frightens-you does not exist,
the what-lies-hidden-beautiful-mysterious
could merely be a dream.
4 comments:
Concise. I love that about your work. You say so much with just the appropriate words, arranging them precariously. Still reading...
That first stanza is genius.
Thank you so much for your generous comments. My stuff needs a lot of work but I appreciate your supportive words!
Stunning and beautiful.
You strike a deep cord.
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