Did your ego need to crawl again from
its swamp-mired lair to pollute my serene
space, your fear’s wired cadaver once more come
forth like Lazarus, staggering on scene
through command rather than desire, your tomb’s
dark prison turned you insane? I thought we’d
settled this. Prayer at last has formed my womb
for conversation, where evil words bleed
away before my lips utter phrases
to grow or stifle my spirit. Hear it?
How silence pierces our night like phases
of thunderless lightning? How there’s merit
in not voicing these thoughts? And how profound
my few words can be: “I’ll see you around.”
Roger Armbrust
April 19, 2010
