A rough, untitled poem

It's not that I need something better than this
but what's right in the first place for my twist
of the truth in my heart to make it accomodate
all of the passions and affections to be sated
in the darkness of elation with what is hated
by the God Most High in all His Holiness, wonder
at the state of man who betrays with a kiss, not
bowing down in horror and reverence in confrontation
whence he ought to be convicted and sorrow in regret
not at what he has lost or what he might lose,
or what he might gain here, but that he does not choose
what is good in the sight of the one who is Truth
the hard road promised by He whom it behooved¹, to show
utter love out of goodness with mercies in grace
unto those Him rejected and nailed to that stake.

¹"taking up (for oneself)."


at the state of the man who doesn't kiss his feet

when he ought to be convicted and sorrow in regret

the hard road promised by He whom it behooved to show

Unseen Rule

World's poor, among all
seek not mammon
renounce avarice
and do not whine
or their use of you
shall have no end
the powers that be
do not know them
whoever they are
their reigns last not
as long as appears
undone before

it is evident.

untitled poem

If I had a child

I would tell him that

information is

not wisdom, the wise

do not inundate

themselves, the deluge

does not carry them

as waves tossed by wind,

they do not follow,

seeking acceptance

or approbation,

by those who noise.

That knowing all is

not the essential

matter for acting

but rather gaps and

discriminating

consideration

are often better

for well-doing than

pretence to having

either sure command

or omniscience.