the war on innocence;
poetry is the desperate
act of getting it back.
when experience is pure
earned and fruited
there is love and power
and beautiful.
when it is twisted and early
it is ugly and weak but
sickeningly dangerous
(like an old snake
or a dying nation).
innocence is here and gone
a revelation.
it is the shiny brightness
at 2
in the golden kingdom,
when the soul sails
in ships of clam shells
reflecting fully the rising sun.
it is the skipping madly
at 3:
how many breaths
does a young child take?
none at all.
in the void
she is breathed by
the one cosmic wind
she is the primordial
breath of youth
blowing across the
plane of her own being.
then at 4
she opens the door
to the perfect garden
where the snake still sleeps
and the apples are but blossoms.
she is the dream flower
and has never been more awake,
rooted in the soil
of her own perfection.
she drinks the sap
of the sun
and talks to animals
gesturing wildly
with flailing sepals
and the crowning
glory of madness laughs
a psychedelic pitter patter
rain on the leaves.
she knows no science
only sunshine