Google That Shit

I want to see.

Pluck from my eyes the translucent film. Obstructing, prohibiting, lying.

I want to breathe.

Deep, eternal, hold the succulent fresh air, luminescent, new and brimming with life.

I want to hear.

Patient, attentive: as the grain hears the wind and responds perfectly, with sharpness and tender love.

I want to taste.

Our friendship, our love: an appetite for communal peace, each drop as savory as the last.

I want to feel.

Alive. Look into my childish eyes and I in yours. Intertwined, our souls are. Tangible, unfettered, genuine. Vulnerable.

I long to be.

—

Mother, can you hear me as my lamentations echo upon your walls, or have we polluted your thoughts; too perverse, too greedy, too egocentric?

Father, can you see me as I grasp for your hands, your child, flailing and desperate, or have we turned so far away that the distance is too great; cloaked in pain, blame, and lies, twisting our vision into mere phantoms that resemble the idols we have built?

Brother, can you feel my breath upon you as I whisper my best attempts of love, or has our tongue become that of a serpent, permeated with blasphemy and bitter betrayal.

Sister, can you taste the sweat of my labor, the songs of the field, dripping with humility and kindness, or have we become so lazy, uneducated, and hateful, as to poison the water that bears eternal life?

Mother, can you forgive us?

–

Can we see!?  Will you allow us to breathe deep, hear tenderness, taste loveliness, and feel alive? Shall we continue to isolate ourselves with damnation?

I want to see.

I want to come home.

Edward Westover

Monday, August 10, 2009

They say the apple doesn’t fall from the tree.

I wish it did.

The tree is rotten, shredded by hacking termites

But glistening is the reflection of wisdom and knowledge of good and Evil.

If the seed rejects its metamorphosis and aspires to be autonomous of what is written

How then should it be perceived?

Fathers of serpents, sons of invention

The cyclical repetition ends with a beating of the heart.

No more shall the fruit drop rotten and grotesque

But through heedful eyes will the film and lead be foreign to this spawn.

Through patience and skillful virtue axes will chop the dead stalks, tall and deceptive.

Faith will replace falsity; truth will trample the tongue

And no more shall the apple aspire to be an orange.

-Edward Westover

Sept. 18^th, 2009

Father of Lies.