No Other Gods

I know you wont say, but you see. I see, you know...too. So, play your petty silences, your amalgam's of poise...the phony smiles, as truth's sour grapes and rich ones too, burn like bitter testicles upon your tongue.

Pretend to lay awake, to think...because, you wouldn't touch my love...with a ten foot pole. Pretend to dig my junk, but I wouldn't know...for I haven't felt your hand that way, since...so long ago.

You flee the fact, you've studied everything I've written...as you fly and rage, within the cage you built yourself. Then, you line the cage floor with the words, and tear at them...as angry birds.

You cannot mock what is really free, when you are not...for it is brass, and everyone will know. What can you say, for you are caught, on your own horn? I would say, that silence is...the only 'tack' you've got.

Yet, you can stop, and turn around...to ask the way. That's right. I'll only say..."It's a long way back." I've come this far. You know I have, from the garden there, to see you trip and fall and grow.

I don't want to watch you end...so, I'm going home.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Thomas Cole 1828, Expulsion From the Garden of Eden