Most passed by
With their own lodes barren
Some considered us fruits
Whose only value was what was eating us
Others fancied us spoiled
At any rate
As undrinkable whines
Expressing only of what we no
Sow surly
After awe
Falling to the ground
As mysteriously whole beings
Only stranger yet
Yielding a hundred fooled
As if
To be
Cut from the vying
Knot frayed
To be another’s harvest
Fore what prophets amen

This poem is about rebellion against having our souls parsed out into fruitless peace after fruitless peace.  It is no easy task to remain whole in a whirled habituated to selling awe that is sweet to the highest bitter.  The udder commitment to awe that is unbroken yields derision in the mete market of humanity for sale.  Fortunately, as crazy as it may peer, this poem yields a tale of resurrection, re-birthing more of the sane as many fold.  That which is mere refuse yields the whole that is unseed by many.  Ground into flower becomes bred.  The shuttering hole turns out to be whole.  And wile the whirled is lost, sum are set free, a prize few are willing to pay.  May you discover that unbroken peace surpassing any accost.