dark woods: a vagabond poet's donation

why words?
why sacrifice words for
truth and truth for love and love
for words?

why give anything?  why take what is 'yours'?
why obfuscate faith with the mirage of shadows, rummage
through insouciant hope?
why pick up scraps of sentience while throwing out nuance, incomplete and
incontinent verbosity?

break sweet the bone, you over there!

Absurd.

forlorn testaments of fidelity, increduality;
we are words ear-marked with absurdity, vexations
of the heart
pathways
where the brave already exist
silently listening to the wind passing through four directions
and twelve stations of the cross, seven heavens
of imagination

why is there three of anything?
where are we when we're not here?
who are we if not the broken light?

only the sacred
pine grove, arching the sky into patterns
can hear
the sound of one tree falling