21 August 2019


In the beggining we were in our mothers
We needed no myths to buttress the womb
All was steady steadty, swell recede and seady steady
We needed no words for want, content
Light changed all that.

Father is a symbol; mother is the world
Are there steps until steps?
Are there hands until hands?
There are no lines until clipped words
No succor but love in arms,
like center pulling gravity

In the end we must struggle
to recall continuoulsy that myth
at best, is fluid analogy
A swinging bridge between ridged edifice
built careless on stomped earth

Without, as with distant fathers --
violence and idolotry,
cold verbs applied to objects ruthless
The sad result of strife
toward nought but being free

But there are steps unto steps
there is hold into held. There is
ever -- beginning unto end
And that is -- even just
myth of fluid soul

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