I love what I am not. I'm not the ocean
under a thundering cloud, not the moon
whirling in a narrow ecliptic. I'm not
the righteous man praying myriad times
to a terrific personality. I love what I
may never be. I may not be the cypress
tree waiting for Sunrise, I may not be
the perfect man who doesn't trade in sin.
The awful trials of being have confused
me, left me disoriented in the madness
of a decadent and suffering tradition.
Yet I wish to be saved like the acorn
resting in the soil, waiting until spring
to breach the surface finally liberated.
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