a savior pulls tongue from cheek, rapes

inner thoughts with little kind words

all nestled in zealot-think; a shred,

inner and silver, equal to lines recited

once, before they were written down,

started telling everyone how to live


they, in effect, became understudy-love,

with puppet strings dangling, each finger,

as razor wires & webbed skin/split fingers

down the middle, as above, as moment;

a felicity of sound, mere mortals never

pick up, might hear its echo, when death

knocks, but not sure


so yes, I think; a spiritual man

becomes scared of religion & of

his soul—of course—too much—

a pressure too great to control.


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