The Pilgrimage: Part 29 / Phillip Neal Tippin
By folk art attest
With the shepherd
That Christ is here.
I’m further west
Than that.
Suspended wisps of an autumn brume
Woven as webs over the field strewn.
I feel de-sanctified
By a knowledge compounding.
Words as the roads
To the Word, the Road.
A feasting famine,
A population plagued
Partly by their fasting.
Cut and dried
Could be
Luted, lithe.
Walk
And feel my youth
In the dark brooding,
Luxuriate in the cold melancholy
And return to sleep
Under blankets
Warm.
To admit without mitigation
Reveals a shoddy semblance indeed.
The day calls forth an injured man
Mustered more for the kill than his skill.
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