The Book of Weston

He walks your twisted woods alone,

wild hair burning devil green.

You think you know him but you don't.

His woolen robes hide something

far beyond the barrier of speech.

Wordlessly, he sifts your thoughts

and finds them incomplete.

He scans your memories, beliefs,

eyes darting for something real to grasp.

He laughs his guttural laugh,

ha ha ha, at all your logic.

In his palm, your scattered truth

converges to a point, sparkling,

speaking his silent language.

In his grace, he sends them up:

pieces of you like words of flame,

in cloudy dreams, bolts of feeling,

thunder in the gut.

He trusts you to filter his fire

into something you can hold.