Buying flowers
lowers
panic levels
as bevels
in mirrors
reduce terrors
by taking
images
and breaking
their edges:
freely
buds of peonies
burst from stems
beyond the whims
of the devil.
Flowers are not evil,
though they make belief
in evil easy:
they’re so beautiful
that God must be ugly.
They’re not in His image,
but what He wants to be.
He sets as His wage what
He wants to see,
for He is cancerous,
crippled,
leperous,
and pulled
toward terror.
God must be error
incarnate!
How else can we account
for evil and still mount
our belief? Hate
must be His state.
Our damage
isn’t in God’s eye,
but God’s eye.
It’s His image,
the one He creates in,
a state of sin.
Thus the terror around us
surrounds us
because it is God.
Here I thought He was good.
He can barely lift
His scaled hand
to His bulbous forehead
or, for the sores, shift
from side to side.
Not to hide
what He is, but
to gain what
He would be,
He must make beauty,
just as we hope
to change and grope
toward form in our lives,
even if only the rhymes
of our mistakes survive.
Thus all is pattern.
The continual figure
of a leaf
is the flower
of error and belief
in the world’s faults
which are God’s faults:
horror
in order.
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