Black fingernails jive on tense clouds
And the lips of a prophet quiver.
Amarous to their ignorance as if
Insight was a plight and decay was made without time.
How to fan the fire of youth?
Afraid about what they themselves inherently know.
Like pirates out for bounty without wind.
Let them open the windows and slit the wrist of the sky. The children hold the golden compass less distortion.
They have the questions for your freedom.
But they are The Souls' Santa Maria
And with our selfishness
We snuff the wind before they knew they could sail.
Can you speak as you do in their absence when they are present? Or is it like conquest, tongues lost in translation.
Think of the seeds.
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