A maelstrom of toxins marches
inward from the periphery:
you are vigilant with science
and slash with superstition
at their watery bellies.
Inanity and anxiety form the bunker
that stays the toxins’ plunder;
into it shafts of Wonder
often enough break (interrupting
our apotropaic haste),
and seed the packed earth
with Wondrous mirth
only patience and charity can grow.
Yet we bicker away
and lay waste the day
this bright fragile shoot remains whole
my negligence, fear, and small soul.
Still, our accusations, from poisoned eyes,
we’ve poured as cement, and have trapped ourselves in.
Should we accuse self-ward, our hearts would rise,
and cease from those labors that so fray and thin
the tapestry to which our story’s applied,
to see the Horizon concealed by the din
of the blinding, dull warfare our sins have devised:
a weightless Beginning, an Eternal Spring
within a chorus of martyrs.