the origins of the peasant
            are lost when they become something more;
                          but does that old woman appear to be
                     a homeless deity?

     in the unrest of the civil,
            shaking closets do not always mean hidden children
        though the beginnings are sometimes begat there –
                          the skeletons that hide from the politics
                     will walk the earth
                          fueled by the overripe hatred of the people

     but if the stars do align and the angels still do not sing
            will your faith waiver or simply stall?
                   for why should the preacher be a liar
                when he was only speaking another’s truth?
truth is circumstantial to your reality
                               we take it all at face value,
                                      even if the face is made of gold

              a partition of innocence and new ideas
                       breeds a new generation of so-called blasphemers
                   by the people who once carried lizard tails as spiritual wards
         so we stand and watch the world burn, while a new one
                       is born under our feet.

                      there is magic in my veins, thick with the notion
                   that there is always something wonderful to be peered upon
          a grime-stricken window does not mean light exists nowhere but the lamp
                      while a moth does not always entail death in the hands of fire

            so freedom-fighter, sunlight on the witch’s helm and smoke in your mouth
                    that door isn’t going to kick itself in,
                                 that philosophy isn’t going to debate itself
                          are you going to humanize us all
                                    or will you join the mutiny on board?