If not words as tools, then words as weapons

To rock you’re rooted, photosynthesising thing

as I trot, trek-booted, to the Corinthians I sing

Once lost on a prayer and a wing, I now spring forth

from growth-stunting self-discourse

 

Sick of hunting, this horse stands to one side of the course

head bowed in humility, but never remorse

With recourse to a pun, I pull oars towards sun

following raven to haven, a Norse on the run

 

An interstellar centaur who gnaws on the wrong

memories that I could never please the god nor the son

Not ignoring this one swan song of irresponsible longing to belong

Neither ancient nor gone, not yet there, won’t be long

Like bees, longing for meadows their swarm to settle on

 

I have set a long since abandoned throng straight

so they see a banned one with passions so great

they soak straight through the skin of the church and the state

Pleasant scent of accelerant sent to scintillate

 

Axles rotate, causing pausing in two eyes

Rest still on arresting red, yellow, blue lies

Reducing obtuseness in confused acute tries

Refusing to defuse what was wired causa sui

 

photo sympathetic to photosynthesis

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