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muddying the waters become turbid waters
muddying the waters become turbid waters
my eyes are not
as dry and yet also
not as bloodshot;
but I could hear
the sobbing
our minds collide
like mere things
being bought and sold,
marketed, as if
we're bartering
this soul is not crying
like you do, because
I might have been
a hardened criminal
decidedly, impulsively so,
like raindrops thought
to multiply in a clear
day that turned dismal
it is indeed both a stride
and a strife, in a similar fashion,
these are poems of
my wind-blown skin
I am no toroid or a source
of any ultimately profound
phenomena, like
Dr. Heiser's studies of the unseen
The End is near, but most
are just turning a blind eye,
unable to hear what's being said
in their Hebrew bibles
we still breathe air, able to
heave up our chests,
to greet the morning until it is
dusk, yet we are faithless
