Ok then. (Poem)

When I write and there is no love, I know it must be deleted; if I write and there is play, then I know love’s not conceded.

When a beehive is next to a house that tolerates bees, people are sometimes nearby; if the courtyard’s by a hive it always seems empty, check the windows for fearful eyes.

When a factory is hiding its conditions, nobody speaks; when it has nothing to hide, owners share with their laborers if there’s a leak.

If a truth is universal everyone knows, but needs no definition; when one’s truth is fearful it trembles in pain, until it is written in blood as sacramental.

The pavement climbs the hill, like wings climb the sky; sidewalks crumble to pieces like sparrows fall and die.

Spaces and silences have as much to say as parables; but new pictures speak in symbols that nobody controls.