growing backwards

Restitution betrays the sacrifice.

Gaining now from a righteous pedestal of wanton sensibilities and dissected intentions,

we gather crumbs we ourselves have cast.

The prison of thought treats us as royalty

and in turn we treat it as God.

The surreptitious and convoluted nature of this poem

barks at the inner gate

while the mind laughs at it,

unbeknownced to its own mindful misunderstanding.

Leave the words. The simple are waiting