At the first stage of dessication, there is the rigid form, and the disciple, minister, and naysayer alike all cleave to it for its comforting corpse-like clutchability. Then a small fraction, one day, succeeds to observe the mystery from many perspectives, and the corpse begins to dance and asks a question. Then, an era passes, and for a very tiny fraction, their persistent, unfrozen awe and devotion observes what truly is, as a conceptual blossom, and heart-seen, but not seen by mind…

All puzzles once by mere human hands thus knotted
And compounded with time and mind’s arcane twist
Well fueled by your lust after mute certitude
Entombing Light’s heartwise glimpse in demonic grey mist

Damn the clergy who darkened life’s pale miracle
Who wed to independent striving Doubt’s suspect sin
Praise the whore fucking convention in bold innocence
Steering yet by dimmed authentic searchlight within

Long now we’ve sensed the pulpit’s simpleton stench
Sermons etched not for depth but Faith’s routine depraved
Cleave not to the singsong two dry millenia corrupted
Nor count yourself early by Pride’s lassitude Saved

_______RS

[ Note: the mathematical form is called a trefoil. If you flatten it into two dimensions you get the traditional pretzel, for which it is a mortal sin to consume without mustard. The wildflower, which nature pours matter into like a spiritual mold, and colors with a bombastic holiness is called a birdsfoot trefoil. ] 

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