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

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply