It is a delicate deliberation that binds us.

moonstone pale, this burlesque palantir no longer shows skin

along the roads, a whisper can be heard clear

we are drawing mandalas in the cornfields

hoping the storm on the horizon

moves away from here

education provided is fraught with peril

faces of guard are soluble, malleable

they roam, ever-changing, afraid of fear of self

cacophonous dirge of progress bellows from our civility

drone as mind numbing as any opium

the stillness in heartbreak

leaves us foraging through consequence

Draw a name in lamb’s blood

upon doors and harken the trumpet

requiem for an empire cried

from throat of grackle and blackwing

suicidal ideational aphasia plagues

our clergy, sachem and solon

bull sketches hexagrams and crescents

in cobweb caricature along dull avenues

teach the children to draw mandalas

along banks of slowing river

Hoping that their hands can

weave straw into gold.

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