Sunday; Sundae

I.                    We scoop our judgement into sundae bowls;

spoon feed one another

to make the lies go down;

award one another with trivialities;

(forget to breath) speak in clicked tongues. We

place offerings at the feet of Sanctimony; enshrine

our haughty humble deeds in clever partitions.

II.                   She held her head in her hands and waited

for the procession to pass; burning

coals wafting incense cones – a ritual smothering

of the dead.

III.                We are but a mote amongst universes; dust-mites

in the rug of chaos theory.

IV.                She dreams in parallel –

carries

conflicting ideas in the womb;

our lips, tiny wounds of the flesh,

betray us; tear roughly at the silk of Empathy.