Father

I am the sweetest infidel on earth.
I could never communicate my love
on the stormy roots of the present
achieving only
newer and newer balances,
both adored and questioned.
The severe, vedic garb i live in,
is more important to me than
the cask of mud and water i was borne in.
what i want to create is more brilliant than a
seasons freight of dusky ample cloud,
but my creator does not let me try my hand
at life.
some gods offer me the genteel scorn of
the sky,
mosques of ice below it,
and some the darkness of a water
richer than ebony.
For now my reverence is pagan,
a child's vermilion ague
and dressed up abandon.
I feel the fathering air,
its bloody charcoal stutter
from throat to finger,
my belief is a kind of anarchy.
my eyes accost the porcelain singes
and lulls of the wind around me
i am tearing through his icy splendor to
only, just once
look him in the eye.