August 26 by The Running Son
γ• ฿one and ௱arrow •γ
Babel crashed once.
It was a catastrophe leaving veins of language
to color continents, outlasting ages of fantastic
monuments, Gods, and the bashful Turrets based
diffusion of an apologetic plate tectonics.
Perhaps the confusion
lay in the properties of the blocks, management,
or the cost of having whips re-laced, embossed
handles with tassels replaced annually, taken
to iron age fashion extremes, at cost.
Or maybe the division
of tongues was between men, their cranial straw
infusing clay blocks, and the angels among them,
shopping, fostering song, working out the deep knots
in places where ribs cage long, then drop.
Then maybe the dark delta
between self perception and the image seen in
the Nile among the reeds began to root and take
seed beside new waters, reflecting in concentric
fashion, father to son, Babel’s passion.
by Jim Aldrich 🙂
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.