The world is still deceived with ornamental
verse, augmented architecture, noisy narrative
and confused scripture. The letters spell out
disoriented names, the paths of the planets
and precession of equinoxes. She's a sentence
I mutter under my breath, the book's language
and the non-language of birds. The river flows
into the gulf, the bays lap at the shores
of many communities. The world is still deceived
by curious rhetoric, furious device, hatred
and ideological love. I cannot decipher
the meaning beneath the subterfuge collecting
in a mess of illusions. She is the bare tree
itself before it is dressed with anything.
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