They wrote ire upon his paper sleeves,
emboldened letters, tagged the breast
Rid us of these visitors,
unwelcome crumples inside our humble living,
considering permanent crease-hood.
They drew irony inside the weightless hood,
sketchbook of trueborn
Keep us palettes
of summer light,
as we uninvite their exodus,
and section by section,
homogenize spiritual plights until
there’s naught to fight but ourselves.
Throwing matches in protest,
wood tinder of worship, some land in embers
repurposed for their hopeless chants.
The man who dresses in
narrative owns the
miscarriages of its themes,
and we’re standing in an
a cinder sea
The man is dressed in paper,
people throwing flames
all vying for the honour of igniting him fastest.
But he never burns,
because chapter and verse, he’s
fireproof, and pyromaniacs at his