Does the thought of those not free keep them slaves?
Or does moving away help them see?
Does the thought of God deny His being?
Or is what brings love being empty?
These are the questions that plague our minds
In starts, in shatters.
The smallest thoughts can topple walls
Yet they lift away to grow somewhere
And let the purple trees and succulents
Play inside the head like 50s jazz.
Perhaps in dreams they'll reappear
In the guise of long-dead relatives
Under purple trees, playing 50s jazz
-- The closest thing we have to forgiveness.
