12 November 2019

Postcard 183

Inasmuch as you did to the least of these, you did it to me.

It should be clear by now, that what
you did not do to these least beings
is what you have done to your own self

There ought to be music filling these streets
but you arent singing. Tightly
as a chain constrains its own steel
from ringing out, Wraiths!
Arent you starving for every single thing
you hunger for?

Call hunger virtue, call fullfillment vice and
there is your ghastly security. There are
no starvation songs. The least of these is
a flowing spring, juicy with experience
outside your door locked safety

You did as you did to me, as to
them as to yourself -- no son nor
daughter of divinity, no prophet
of singing,  you have refused
your own abundance

You shall have none and
shall lose even that you have
that false security

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