Only where the sensations of destiny cannot be found:
there, he grows in numbers too immeasurable to count.
If you rest easy in his arms,
he will teach you that god can sprout
from any orifice, square, shaped or round;
holiness can descend straight down to darkness,
as long as there's enough sound
and reason enough for your soul to scream, to drown
in the gaze of the sower, so immensely profound
and screeching, devouring, consuming all-around
outstanding discernment; nothing is allowed
to stay strong, to stand up,
to know that it is gay on its own ground.
And you must be gay.
You came to read a poem about a flower;
that is how the story goes in many places now.
How silly. How puerile;
but the dark flower can grow wherever it is allowed
to know that it is desired on its own ground,
where it can be watered without
any claim to resound
in the walls of the psyche were it should have been bound.
There is nothing magic about it, nonetheless;
nothing to be found in saying its name aloud,
or having its shape appear in this poem, allowing its knowledge to be found.
The decision is ultimately made between you and everything that you crown
as king, as quing, as queen, as god;
and it is in that decision, every single day of every single life in every single city and town
and country and universe and multiverse and battleground
that hope, and love are either here, or nowhere to be found.
And if they claim, they say, they tell you that this decision is still far away,
there should be no sense of doubt.
Nothing held without.
Remember that even Childe Roland always, in the end, to the Dark Power came.
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