How easy it would be to string a noose
up from a tree and give that soul of mine
to charity. (Though I’m not so obtuse
as to from 3-Dimensions disentwine).
A voice has whispered long and low to make
me interrupt the flow of destiny
and wrestle me from being wide-awake
to forfeit my alignful synchrony.
But having seen the face behind the voice
(for spirits in this world aren’t only light)
I realised those words come with a choice
and warfare that’s unseen invades the night.
I wrestle every day (but not for sport);
all charlatans with stealthhood I will thwart.
© Alan Morrison, 2014