Why I am not religious

Confinement wages war against the contents of wings

seeking to direct the will of the sun and moon

as if in acknowledging nature subservient to ink

it will be made true. 

But making true does not truth make.

Thus the only contemplation of caligraphication

is in the contents of my heart where 

the determination of the Universe is between 

only us and the only writing of truth

is in the bluebird singing and 

the composition of storms. 

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