The Divine is Stable, the Rest is Smoke
The one who abstains, is still a sinner.
All the poor are rich in covetousness
the privileged few, indigent in offering.
The all wise, wash away in temptation
the cool crack, under a tickling feather
pricking the grub in the lightless inner.
Ignorant gift or wondrous work of art
snatched by flash flood or crushing crocodile
stain waters, then vanish as if on wings.
Wild life force and the unheard thought
all artistic secrets and their carnal clues
go up in smoke, like cremated tattoos