Home is the place with wings, a land
of careless snacking, dancing to go
meet beloved. Still on the edge of the garden path
eased the fog, which veiled windows. Out
upon the horizon unperceived, a scoff
nicked at the disk of light. “Where to?”
Knives of sunlight clashed above the questioner.
“No human should enter these grounds, no brig
or wheel should penetrate
what He had made with his own hands.” But,
no one saw beyond the Book. In lieu,
do mark, in lieu, of truths not written,
organs of virtues, vessels so meek,
never to speak when the world lean
to an antichrist, but knelt like the prophet who
faced the burning bush. It was just so low
of the world to close her ears, to own
remembrances but use them not. Truth
granted but rusting, intellect rotten. Voodoo
evaluated as science, science but scam;
to be or not to be, can we continue to not see?
Read vertically down both sides: those were the three prompts that I was given for this poem.