I do not want to acknowledge
the world as a military outpost
the bruises forming under the sun
the telepathy of clouds in their aftermirage
all sorrow hinging on the word "because"
I want to be still
more still than starlight on the waves
more quiet than words on a page that no one reads
more faithful than anything around
the soul becoming beautiful without a sound
I do not want to acknowledge
the banishment from the fairy tale
of the singing, soaring lark;
the dominance of the dark
the soul as a doormat, caught in all drafts
I want to live like flowers in a foreign field
flourishing God knows only how
I will not bow to iniquity.
mary angela douglas 3 december 2021;2 february 2022
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