Here we are on the Tree of Knowledge.
We dangle here, at the end of our wits.
Feeling the pulse of control, capital, or social whims.
Not together whims because that’s not “freedom.”
So, we dangle. More and more.
Untethered and left to our own devices.
They tell us one thing, we see another.
Dangling in the air of possible angelic proportions.
But not really. Angels are for dreamers, scabs, and parasites.
We are here now, goddammit! Take all we can before it all melts.
Into the dangling purpose beyond all knowledge.
The tree that has no end also has no beginning.
It dangles hope and fear in front of our unseeing eyes.
Copyright 2022 by J. Musgrave