The things I believe in, that I worship, no longer have names I’m able to pronounce.
They are rumblings, babblings and bubblings, barbarous to my domesticated ear.
I could probably learn them, track their motions, map their meanings, but out of respect I don’t and won’t.
I’ll not cage them with my desire to understand but let them remain wild.
I will do the devotions, fan fires, throw bones, dance patterns, and mumble the gibberish they press upon me in dreams.
I will love and fear them when they come, miss them when they’re gone, and let them be.
This piece is included in Eden Bloom Eschaton Life