Forever Ready To Be Bread

Forever Ready To Be Bread

By Matt The Poet

Runaway with me.

Play with me.

Paradise at the perfect pitch.

I am the weaver’s mistaken stitch.

The poor man, eternally rich.

Releasing renegade reveries

From severed trees.

Stumping the best and the brightest.

Lifting the heaviest and the lightest

To heavenly heights.

Hollow and holy.

Leaving that space to be filled

Like a cup spilled

Is making room for new purpose.

The seduction of a hue by a blank surface.

The necessity of being

Without seeing

What is seen is obscene.

Ostentatious even in stasis.

The places penetrated by peering faces.

Transgressed and undressed

By the wanting eyes

That try to disguise

A pupil that has missed the point.

Rules aren’t real.

They steal a meal

From beggars

Limping towards freedom.

The seat of wisdom

Is the ground

And can be found

Wherever you look

But may be mistook

For the home of the rook.

Corners collect energy,

So look in the corners of your soul

For the treasure that they stole.

You will find it waiting patiently,

Like a dog excited to see its master.

Surrendering to forever faster

Than drying plaster

Dreaming of disaster

Rather than a life unchanging.

To remain the same

Is a fate worse than death.

Unmake me,

But don’t bake me.

If I am dough,

Let me remain so.

Forever unformed.

Forever ready to be bread.