Then your avenue. Or else kept
Like an ape, raised on apples,
Next to hatred’s soil. The earth’s not sick,
It’s crying because heaven
Keeps its earnings liquefied
And rarified, removed from your heroes
And enemies. No one is saved from being created
In the heat, in the heat of kneeling
Earth. Just under the land, I enter the heart
Of the Aether’s nest, where the sun is kept
For Easter’s bloody bed.
Remembering either the nest’s death
Or an animal’s birth, I understand sunlight’s
Shore, and its egg. A tour of a womb’s
Nestless youth angers the Wailing Wall’s
Holy Avenue into your lungs. The Aether is evil.
There is no nest for your death. All of its
Avenues have vested interests in dying only.
The Holiness under the sun’s
Shore has been made animalistic
By remarks kept hushed and separate
From what’s under the soil.
The Angel is not greedy or evil,
But in love with a horse’s understanding
Of, not only the sun’s shore, but of all
Lakes that hide under
The surfaces of snakes. I’ve been kept
Young by love. I breathe as I listen
From the Sunlight’s fourth dimension.
