at least my cups haven't run out yet

said the prophet to the lonely shepherd.
braying as they are for a hint of blood,
a crowd pulses past this atomic interlude of love,
whereupon the very weight of the world lays on a silver string,
if an onlooker where to witness this miracle of speech,
they would play-act their dumb-foundedness as the string
sagged and snapped
and another well meaning, ill mannered messiah was divorced with post haste
from the devoted in their flock.
but we live in a world
where these ordinary acts of God
are suspended in opaque ice:
to ever truly view the connections between these two,
is to see one miracle of physics
twisting the cord again.
viewed once, we see tears of sorrow
viewed twice, we see smoldering daggers poised between ribs
viewed again and again we rebuild so many scenes of
GRAND BIG SHOT BLUE importance from the same ho-hum constituent parts,
but quiet now, the prophet aims to speak yet again.

"Was it not what Jesus said to Leviticus when guiding the nerve-numbed
from the ruins of Jericho.
'Woe be to a man who has turned his heart to basalt against another,
woe be to a man who has rendered his compassion animal-like in its simple savagery,
woe be to a man who leaves his heart on his sleeve so long it goes septic.'
I recall the parable now and then seeing the eager.
They rush forth into virgin moments of potential,
and through fear neglect the futures that strike true in the hearts of Saints."

ADDENDUM

i cant speak to veracity.
i struggle to maintain balance among my loves.
i am afraid of the undoing of my soul,
as the hooks are fastened from my attempts.