..

O ruinous World, when will he see
That perfect fruit your Voice seeds me?
How muse, O Cosm, from his knees?
And where, the patient wife, will she
Reside, ill-loved by life?

The truest comfort is thy Touch
Which teacheth me, eternal, such
That reacheth down to Reason's crutch
(Sonofa Nietzsche, be still!) and up
Astounding prophets' breach:

Forgiven, yea - no need beseech
Old pressured loving hurted speech
While Witness, mute, denies your reach
Lest Judgment's prayer suck like a leech
The holy juice of this, thy pear.

I cannot suffer All for thee
(They say - I feel its echo plea, Because
We're warned of death in ye!)
Yet disavow duality with rapid recitation's hiss.