Shall we pray as one united entity -
try our best?

Or are we all programmed
to explode upon contact with the creator?

Like atoms at fissure curtailed no longer
or, free from doubt?

Do we choose in the end - make an effort
or make no difference?

Fibres in the fabric of absent matter
awaiting its slot of exposure to the god-
head gushing as its meant?

Or as close to no consequence as is possible
to get without having lived and left a trace

wherever life leads, wherever we tread

before its shell returns what spiritual
force we imagine runs true when drawing up our breath?

What blueprint's mapping our conceptual landscape
as we post thought from a lectern postured
stance of academic sense?

Does a lettered gown within there curl outward
sans serif?

Straight lines anchor to a thread of fixed alertness

woven as one mesh of presence adorning the seive
of whatever filter perculates the essential sketch

discerened as we cross the egg yolk film thin threshold
and surrender our souls to the void of death?

Will we notice if we sink or lift in the evenly weighted
balance of passageways linking the extremities and depths
inherent in joyous sorrow to the earth upon which
ineffable order unfolds our flesh?

Are we campaigners in a familiar yet ancient faith
environment, ideal to situate the practice of managing
language made artefacts, whose restoration

comes through the simple act of allowing our
reverance an outlet to access the mystery
in a climate laid bare of waste;

where vectors of dispersal are a
continual Yeatsean deportment of the gyre's
gyrational flux
which emanate the role of beings we play

in the characters breathing creation
through lines this life demanded we took
from the pages our eyes came to rest on
as we read the self wrote book?