Hospice for the False Prophets

February 2025

Time is a spiral

I’m dying for survival

To rival the pursuit of pride

Though my eyes go 

Glossy from the tidal

Waves that hit my home

When all i want is flames 

To break open the pine cones

The seeds of new life 

Sown in destruction

I’m honing my judgment

Against tough men

Who don’t bend

Who won’t lend

A hand to the broken

I don’t interrupt them

I clutch pens 

Construct hymns

That upend

Assumptions

We’re all 

on a sinking ship

What we resist 

Continues

I’m seeking a venue 

To speak to my kin who

Seek to be in truth

And breathe while we induce

Hospice 

for the false prophets

Who got us 

Locked into logic that’s

Fraught with deposits

of toxins more monstrous 

than Loch Ness

We got this 

Brief window to 

See all the symbols

That point where the wind blows 

Anoint a new tempo

Where slow and gentle

Are the chosen lens through

Which we filter our actions

Immune to distractions

Tapped in

to something greater

than hope and fear

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Sorry Salt

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The Most Sensible Thing