Poem No. 27 From "Rendered, Volume One"

From Page 36

I know of a mark. The very first
Encryption. That original cipher
Is a streak in the charred Life-Tree.
I tried, harder than with anything,
( I tried, harder than with Joy,
Than with Composure,
Than with Love,
Than with Myself)
To repair that stamp’s Merciful Countenance.
Parsed anew, prefacing with critique
On method, conveyance—the content
Berates interpretation, impairs retelling.

From that I sense the phrase said best
To oneself, absorbing gently from troves
That lurk in sunlit leaves, in place of those
Stuffy tomes of Hubris, Conjecture.

Uttered in confidence—violence of grief,
Murderous intent upon Uncertainty—
They ease into the consoling counsel of
Life’s Breath, Noble Frenzy. That steady,
Disinclined exhale.

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