Father weighs with ledger, mother by the measure of scripture. "Oh son, begotten in such a secular wind, what word have you willed and wrought from the criterion of this barren heath? -but a prodigal song".
The only and most lonely child whisking white light at the split of his tongue. Reconciles knees to dirt, reconciles knees to that pulse-beat of source. Within the smudge of sage the rancor fleets away. The celestial fumes of cedar singe a deader shade of pale on my slate. Inscribed in the blood of relic flowing thru the sum of my quantum. Drawing and hailing from within. Uproot my immortal coil, like the flames that branch out and brake off only to be fed back into me. The poignant mind dissipates. For in every empty space exists all that exists.
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