the origins of the peasant
are lost when they become something more;
but does that old woman appear to be
a homeless deity?
in the unrest of the civil,
shaking closets do not always mean hidden children
though the beginnings are sometimes begat there –
the skeletons that hide from the politics
will walk the earth
fueled by the overripe hatred of the people
but if the stars do align and the angels still do not sing
will your faith waiver or simply stall?
for why should the preacher be a liar
when he was only speaking another’s truth?
truth is circumstantial to your reality
we take it all at face value,
even if the face is made of gold
a partition of innocence and new ideas
breeds a new generation of so-called blasphemers
by the people who once carried lizard tails as spiritual wards
so we stand and watch the world burn, while a new one
is born under our feet.
there is magic in my veins, thick with the notion
that there is always something wonderful to be peered upon
a grime-stricken window does not mean light exists nowhere but the lamp
while a moth does not always entail death in the hands of fire
so freedom-fighter, sunlight on the witch’s helm and smoke in your mouth
that door isn’t going to kick itself in,
that philosophy isn’t going to debate itself
are you going to humanize us all
or will you join the mutiny on board?