It

Quiet.

Quiet all us down.

Perhaps to hear It’s deafening sound:

The stillness of the trees.

And the stillness found only in me.

It’s utterances are wind,

And red wine with a tipsy friend.

It’s embrace remains despite,

Assurances we’re not alright.

Somewhere along, we’ve tasted worry.

Now our preferred, sanctioned story.

When all one knows is forced correction,

All one absorbs, cosmic rejection.

It’ll never mind us of tomorrow though,

Or yesterday’s sad sorrowfuls.

It can’t pretend we’re not It’s own,

Though life is found through pains and groans.

How could It leave It’s hearts desire,

Despite the raging fits and fire?

The only truth It cannot know,

Is why all the burdened troubled souls?

Could it be true that Eden’s here?

And Cherubim is pride and fear?

How can those in hell’s dark leaven,

Tell rest of us we’re not in heaven?

Quiet.

Quiet all us down.

Perhaps to hear It’s deafening sound: