A Lapse; A Leap Into The Profane

Beanstalks growing,

beanstalks growing!

A revolution beings.

“Impossible.” are the murmured

statements whispered

here and there.

Questions asked and incredulous

answers perceived as the

beanstalks reach for the Heavens,

as if to say; 'Climb down me giants,

I may just reach you.'

The spelled winds ripen and

monsoons come to wipe away

a village. They don’t.

But mud and floods remain.

Her mascara runs black, her eyes dark and dirty

Her laughter wheezy as she scrambles for the little boy.

Snatching his hand away from his weeping mother, she ties

his fathers fingers into knots.

Forced to his knees in obeisance;

Like bubble-bath the ground opens and into the floor he

disappears.

A lapse,

A leap into the profane

As you turn away in pursuit

She kneels before the wholly uncomprehending mystery.

As she steeps,

Justification; a blanket she wraps around her

Riding on a scallop shell, and born of foam

She cuts the strings

A dance of black-guarding had begun.

Yielding lovely visions

In the face of cold material laws

He picks his instrument

Flowing from his tongues

A lame smith turns his sights

And braids of hair fall from his head

And invented – a wisdom

Of a warrior

A messenger- a thief of god.

Mother hens pecking at a child

Yelling at it’s clumsiness

Mother hens shouting at their chicks

At faults perceived profane

You are loud!! Child yells.

You are vain and mundane to shout so as I create!