The Knight Weavery

Perhaps it isn't a waking angel that conjures this blue sphere. Follow the rabbit down the hole And you'll find the many armies That wove us into being Sitting at their long wooden tables with Their face guards pushed up and perched Above steel tops. The sorry caramel taste's in our mouths. Grinding our teeth through pardons. We're always arising with petals in our ears, Silently screaming, for active and effortless love. Goodnight, knight weaver. Goodnight, angel. Tell the gods I've been acquitted. Tell the devil I've changed my name.