The script of change
The evangelization of darkness
To the democracy of light
A little ball of fire, an orb oozing out of the ocean
Climbing on an azure shoulder
A sculpture of day, in the malleable
Quanta of daylight. Blinded, searching for an antidote,
An umbrella as black as midnight.

The scripture of unmasking
A little glow at most, an epiphany nevertheless
Of the strange visual of a thousand
Different rays in a myriad of formations. The wind blowing
Through a coconut grove, climbing
On the underbelly of the chin.
The inlet of all things painted in gold, a visual of all that we see
And comprehend.

A framed photograph
Of gleanings through a crack in the
Eye, which turns to gather; a harvest.
An open curtain, the smell of grass
The taste of tea, and a feeling that
Anything could happen this day.

And the promise of something
Carries you through the bus, the bureau
And the smog. And dawn is the perennial promise
Of those possibilities you’d love to garnish.
And still you’re just a replica of clay
Forgotten to civilization.

And at the end of a protracted day
You search for the greatest pardon of them all
To exonerate the weary body
To shut the vigilant eye.

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