I hear my poetry stinks like a water pot filled with broken bottles of wine –
that the infant thread ties road heads to mimicking minds at dawn.

I hear rumours of a dying me at another crucifixion on Tabernacles –
when the son of the whirlwind called his father by name in an enchanted divination.

I hear that men live and die forever and always pray to a Messiah but themselves –
what am I supposed to do now but not live like that.

I hear these things.
I hear these things.
-Kenneth Christie-Atiti

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