July 2 by The Running Son
The glass rises, closes to a point. I am stained: the poisoning of lead, the separating of color, and the great division between sacred and sacred light. I don’t refract right, never did remain in my lane of insight, or use sacred tact. Let light bleed past my bed, that sacred chamber, that cracked earth manger, the danger being letting light leaks singe too pale creatures for pleasure—to vapor wisps, from treasure. And for kicks and leisure I rip out spectrums from underbellies, cut colors, edit out steps, then lamely confess: God never really saw me at my full color best.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.