The Hands Read

It’s collective soul constipation.

This is when the deadbeats are resurrected to be beasts, bounding through time.

And my burdened bluebirds full of booze, (hopefully)

blues, (probably)

And poem and song;

This is the time for the starving beast of lyric

And the harvest

Of love

And life

And then of course

The reaping.

My sleep-lacking, insomnia angels with wings that seem too heavy to fly-

Here’s the time to build a home with bloodstained bricks from broken churches.

Finish the roof with waterworks.

Seal the deal with dismantled statues of stoic figures

Representing divine madness - reflecting a potential replacement for our disassociated fathers and maiden made mothers…

My brothers and sisters

I insist that this isn’t it.

We must’ve missed something amidst the distraction of smoke and pheromone mist.

Persist further.

For this is the time to search and find

What ever it is we’ve been searching for…