The world is weird,
dreams composed of moonbeams 
are copacetic.
Strange is a tool, a key, 
in an alphabet of desire.

It's easier to canonize
mysteries than follow roads
straight in unwoundness.

Before we talk of God 
again let's, in solitude,
consider the silences
each brings 
to each's own certainties.
The ordinary cat in an ordinary bag.

The ordinary uncertainty,
cures that hurt in the soothing
sound of wind.
Myths of finality exorcised. 
Another alien added.
An uncertain hero for an uncertain time,
silently prepared.

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