Pandemic Triptych III: Wisdom
Anger at blood stained unjust hands.
Standing
on the edge.
Falling deeper
in the holes of our lives.
Failing.
Falling.
We rend our
souls.
Truculent
and tenacious: unsilenced by fear, propaganda and lies.
We speak words
not spoken.
Opinion
without facts and evidence, in cultic bigotry and prejudice dies.
Our
descendants must know that we wreathed words.
Wreathed
words in wisdom.
Hinge raw
lube less truth tight.
Barriers
of pleasure and pain meet.
Expectations
of joy.
Putrid in
pain.
Dean John
Donne taught the seraph’s[i] hinged
six wings of sexuality and spirituality.
We cross
the boundaries of our imaginations with the blessing of our ancestors.
From the holes
in our heart’s beauty cries.
From the
safety of the womb of the prison cell:
We grasp
deeper pain.
Cross
boundaries of the imagination in the service of a transfigured world.
Winged
spirits wreath words in wisdom’s woven heart.
Copyright
© Lottie
E. Allen
The Feast
of St David, 1 March
In the
Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-One
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