Upward palm,
wrinkled skin,
callus grip,
of heavens beam.

Beanstalk climbing,
beyond retina frame,
to Him who owns THE NAME.

If they knew your secrets,
into the sea of poverty they’d throw themselves,
if they could feel your flight,
off the mountain peaks would they plunge,
if they knew your light,
stare at the sun, till blind,
and if they could feel your love,
don the garb of tattered wool, they’d seek.

But nothing of your state do they know,
none of your fruits will they sew,
whilst everyone seeks the glow,
only those mad with love, know.

The reason they cannot find,
is they’re too afraid to lose their minds.

Where art thou seekers?
the heart sweepers.

Why are your bristles still new?
Untravelled shoes.

Why are your feet’s soles smooth?
Why the reluctance to lose?

Afraid to break your hearts,
thus forever remain apart.

You still have so much furniture inside,
decorum, ad-nauseam.

Sell all your wares, have you tried?
Or have you lied,
left no space for secrecy, no place to confide.

Why is your nest not a buzzing hive?
How do you ever remain alive?

You stand aloof, pretend to free of need,
and covet things  behind the doors of your soul,
utter greed.

No,  the beggar does not extend their palm,
for  your feed,
not when in their hearts is an unquenchable seed.

Take heed,
take the reigns of your steed,
your greatest deed,
will be poverty,
then, and only then,
will you be freed.


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