A minor phrase,
Not meaning to be much but a nuance
That tiptoes around the cavity of the brain,
Flame in hand,
Looking for a crevice yet unexplored
To make its own.
It’s a precarious search –
At every bend lurk a million monsters
Ready to pounce
On the unwary thought
And make it one with any deep prejudice
That haunts its hidden catacombs.
What is to become of our nascent, then?
What is to become of our promised dawn
What is to become of our essence, then?
What is to become of our deepest treasures
* * *