A map of prisms
covers my eyes
every time
I gaze upon
the waderings,
these endless myriads of souls
whose own retinas
search the here of naked offerings
for a presevative,
some cork of enough
to quiet the accusations
burning in the furrows of doubt
that haunt like ghosts
when the mind has no babysitter.
Their orbs
secretly shout
what lips deny in mumbles of "no thanks".
Prayer is the dialogue
speaking to the opening
where blindess is redeemed.
by
William Robbins
me!
silence so still
you think you hear your
thundering thoughts
by Timothy McNeal
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