I know not of the finer things

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The open deity
encompassed my directness
and fathomed insecurities
as the youngest child ran off towards the cliff

and they babbled on for centuries,
all about the futility,
forgetting that the argument itself
was insignificant.

And when the child had reached the ledge,
said deity was gone from appropriation
and censored beneath the endless monotony
of a grayish sky

And so the child had fallen
at the expense of an arrogance
so vehemently probed
and ever so carefully tenderized
by the obsequious tendencies
of a feminine tyrant,
making all else seem equally forgotten,
amidst the bones and bile
of a youth so tender,
that it was I who could not hold back laughter
for the smallest issue
had become the largest
or had it always been?

Nobody knew,
and the future cried for days
but held its misery back when nightfall
beckoned gifts of frankincense
and timber rakes
all along the aging watchtower,

for it knew that these gifts
were not for cowards
and only for the majestic kings
who mercilessly slaughtered decades
in the name of an incorporeal void
displaced,
and dehumanized.





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