Vorteces

They understand what they choose to.

While I do not believe in prepackaged spirituality.
Or the common darkness that revels in our slick pathways to it.

You do not have to give in to have goodness.

We are no better than any other species,
and I am most comfortable with that.

I couldn’t buy truth
with any amount of industry.

My mother and father are waiting.

They are leaning like I do,

Yet without the blood
still remaining in their veins.

The result of otherness:
Is the power and prestidigitation of unknowable consequence.

Twigs twitching in the backwoods where there are dogs biting at the bit;
They wear masks to make them real.

I wish I had the negligent mind
With which so many popular kinds are endowed,

To grind their gristle,

To bolster and boast,

To walk down vine, 5th, auburn, or Michigan avenue.

They wait for their place in imaginary heaven:

(Lacking purgatorial prerogatives)

And I will solve it for myself.

Yet I’d like to see the institutions of bad holiness turn themselves inside-in.

The young have been afflicted
over and over again
by weak and unlikeable complexity.

The hollowest of portals into purity
provides the moment when we can decide as individuals not to listen.

Even if it sounds satanic or extremist, it is certainly something else,

Because we know
By the beating of a heavy heart
that death will cure us anyway.

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Published by

errorattic

Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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