Poem: Logos

The flavor you are trying to describe
is found in the seeds
of the pomegranate,
mixed with moonlight, and tears. You will never
forget this taste. I pity you.
Everything will be less
vibrant now
If you had asked:
How are we alike?
The stars would still be your blanket.
The garden still soft beneath your feet.

No. I would not have said love—that is not
the image you bear. The sword still spins
to protect this creation from your harsh love.
A love that would crush the jay in its hands
The blood sings from the ground to Me—
not for vengeance—but in awe.

Does that give you a clue?

I am a Namer. I create with words.
What was light before I said it?
You also name. I would not
take that from you though
your tongue has turned black.
You do more than define—you create.
The thought gives birth to the word;

the word precedes the act.
What was murder before you said it?
You have continued to name

Deceit
Fear
Shame

Each word conceives and confines.

You still lack patience.
You will not hear me.
My words will no longer strive
with your limited vocabulary.
I leave you one behind.

Hope

It didn’t exist before I said it.
At the proper time you must scream it
to the hills and look up.
You will find Me waiting there,
I never left.
For I too am a Namer,
and I AM patient.