There is something wrong with everything, and that is often where its poetry begins: In the rightness of its wrongness. A wrongness that frames and feeds my Unformed Faith.

July 29, 2007 § 1 Comment

My unformed faith:

The vestiges of fairy tales,
Wise men,
Their wands,
My age
and the condition of my dreams.

Regardless,
I can always leave, start something new,
Forgetting everything.

How Dare I?
Because I am the pride of my own self.
A tribute to my me-ness.

How Dare I?
See this badge of courage?
Awarded for the imperfection of my questions?

Or,
I can refuse to leave, and press through a hive of mysteries
With the mere persistence of my presence,

Which is all wrong,
Lacking symmetry,
At first glance, pretty ugly –

Although awkward,
Never blundering, mostly trusting
That the pattern made by all those questions
Will be revealed.

Started 2005 (the only one that year)
Finished enough to post today.

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§ One Response to There is something wrong with everything, and that is often where its poetry begins: In the rightness of its wrongness. A wrongness that frames and feeds my Unformed Faith.

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