Second Christmas

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The delicate work of Muse rendition
When that word
Rendition
Has been usurped by the torture business
Is as difficult now
As it has always been.
Making the invisible, visible.
Being true.
Sentenced by words that are
Love’s sentience.
She says write …. I write
The double You rite that is poetry
Where there is no double You.
“I am who am”, a Master said
Modulated in poetry that somehow spawned
A See
now blinded by the Tantric fury
of burgeoning misunderstanding.

The poet priest returns
Knocking at the locked doors
of a heart forever open.

Letters dance through the light,
Ducts of love that join periodically
tabling the valent cauldron of
The prevalent.

©AJDettman 31/8/13