When people speak with tongues which look like forks
in a road which should be only straightness all the way
I purposefully now destroy their Y-shaped glottal prong.
For satisfied I cannot be until all snaking sneakery
has been transformed into the cleanly dance of song.
They say one thing and then for reasons thoroughly
unknown to me — like juggling chunks of rotting meat
mordaciously — they take another different road
across which countless slimy toads have crawled but
never made it to the greenly growthsome other side.
In play I grab their swaying cobra heads which slyly
hypnotise the overbred and eager victim earing crowd
before those fangs with venom filled can morph a
winter coat into a shroud and break the sacred thread
which some (the wise) have labelled Truth instead.
I ever nowly wonder why they cannot walk on down
the simple path wherein a single sole cohesive tongue
would never wriggle in two parts thus leaving harmony
unsung (not to mention countless lonely broken hearts
from which each lastly drop of blood was wholly wrung).
Or else this world becomes a loathly labyrinth of walls
constructed from the skins and tongues of snakes in
place of vast and open spaces (scary for the uninitiated)
crazy-blazed and from abovely swathed with only light
and true to every law of life on earth is made of only love.
© 2012, Alan Morrison