I curse my words, my poetry, my breath
and wish for silent seepage of the death
of scansion as it rises to my brain
I curse my subtle poetry in vain
for vanity is like the tune I hear
while cursing words and poetry, I fear
my brain enables angels to descend
amidst the lightning thunder, let’s pretend
that noise above is sent from father-god
and mother-god approves with just a nod
perfection is the sequence she will sing;
redemption is the love her tears will bring
as rain begins to fall from darkened clouds
and soaks the tears of worship in the crowds.