In this lab

To witness such feats
based on half truth, lies
imaginations is a sore story,
a lonely lonely land.
The Divine is not hidden,
partial to the view
of only a few,
hidden away
in a blessed tomb,
organized in the angels.
We are fortunate
that the innermost
thoughts remain
well protected even
though the fanatical
escavations attempt
to reveal
this not that
and as such
reports on the all,
the meaningless phrase
of sight and sound
when the screen
beyond the lid
collects nothing
but shapes and imprints
in beds of gelatin:
such a delicate story
in molecular highs and lows,
the excitements of red
in quanta of blue.
Were not the guardians
there too and shielding
their eyes as I asked
please feel sorry for me,
find a way to vanish
this pop art
one more time,
polish the vernacular
of at least
my own memory:
to this engagement:
to this prize:
to this brave wisdom
which in some lands
can get you killed:

no God rises
once, no God
needs to rise
again. Fools.