Her bottle is open as she stands expectant, Justice, a non-scented massage oil warmed in the mind to be poured over judgement and puffed up with false honor when awaiting the world’s hands to carry out meted enforcement of self-proclaimed truth through its rubbing into the complicit skin of world laws, a world incapable of carrying the pregnancy of the spirit to full term yet proclaiming to give birth to man until nurturing him in the hopes he will be broken in its seminal rejections so that it may then hand down to him a sentence of death that in the amnesia of his marriage to the umbilical cord of freedom he become illiterate and give his hands away in service to stories that write themselves into prisons of despair, where windows are stained with the proposition of action and washed in the projection of those who would rather pay penance to maintain clean windows than pay tithes in the service of cleaning hearts. 

Such a soul is groomed to perceive that every individuals wingspans are greater than theirs until their shadow becomes a sacrifice of joy in order that others receive the best views of heaven where in an altered state of attached detachment they are left absent the veil of immortality that allows the sun to drink the water from their hearts unintended exposure, a time when blood becomes water and thirst disintegrates in the realization that atmospheric thinness only becomes separation when sacrificed by honor that suffocates freedom and breaks to a world that dare demand we bend to its feigned birth pains so that we fall in line like soldiers dressed to fight in a war sanctioned solely to ensure separation from peace, that our wishes be altered until we live without resistance numbly pointing our silent rifles towards the temple of hopelessness aimed at atomic bombs covered in inequity and strapped to our very own souls where success is achieved in the pre-planned execution of self later named and etched in public marble that the atrocities of the world never be known even as they are shined like shoes never knowing a dirt path until worthy display on walls built in celebration of the mourning whose demolitioned dreams pay charitable contributions to the shoe shine man for his polish and the tv stations for their reverent pay-per-view moments of silence.

During intermission we are tasked to remember that this world and its people cannot take a life never given nor deign to make true a loss of love it holds no stake to.

Life and love are not quid pro quo so the fight we are in is for what is known but cannot be seen, the temple of you that is the temple of me.

One Life, One Love and Bare feet.