The Knight Weavery
Perhaps it isn't a waking angel
that conjures this blue sphere.
Follow the rabbit down the hole
And you'll find the many armies
That wove us into being
Sitting at their long wooden tables with
Their face guards pushed up and perched
Above steel tops.
The sorry caramel taste's in our mouths.
Grinding our teeth through pardons.
We're always arising with petals in our ears,
Silently screaming, for active and effortless love.
Goodnight, knight weaver.
Goodnight, angel.
Tell the gods I've been acquitted.
Tell the devil I've changed my name.
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