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What might it be that it is not?
That you may think it
It shall become.
To this truck
A tin-can life be tied;
Riding byways, flying skyways
Painting scars upon the face
Of every universe passing.
Pushing back upon us
In its striving to release.
Hold them back, fold them back
Ride them in upon themselves
Those endless songs
That carry us along
Upon this wondrous ride
Consumed by force
Dissolved in tastes
Of something new
That greater effort
To enjoin.
Each soul a branch
Each God a tree
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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