An ostensible point sensibly culls
the rhyme of answers in scarves and furs,
this feeble attempt to announce
the blemished parade of progress.

We sit around, an unfounded assembly,
tense and bounded, just waiting:
waiting for the machine to merit holiness,
waiting for our feet to be washed,
waiting for the sun to run its course,
as an added source to our anxiety.

The chalice of art searches for humanity’s thirst,
a fugitive communion that leaves both sides
leaning into the first emptiness—
like a mutual womb
dreaming of a song.

Marl-chorded strike the bells of this conception,
enchased in the yawning grave
the way a moth’s softness
threads through the vacancy of gothic belfries,
and laurel is gnashed in the cries
when breath enters this world.

In solitude the ember grows,
and myth seeps, licking its wounds
deep in the marsh,
under the blue of whirring lamps.

Come then before our sun
cools in its graceful orbit,
and look inside to find
if we are indeed deserving of this purity.

(c) Seth Grube