In a Season Called Now
Season’s believin’, and believed-in seizin’,
graven the grief from a grievin’ grave.
Conceived in deceit, believin’ deceivin’,
beyond the recoil of a reason to save.
Shedding the skin of a molten shine,
shone in the shade of a molted shed,
between the before and outside the behind,
a season of molt in a deadlock of dread.
A-fore-thought, the malace,
a-fore-thought the dread,
all for naught the dreadnaught,
all for naught and instead,
instead of the peace
there are pieces and peaceless,
speechless the dead full of leafless
belief. Shorn in the fall, in the full fall
of autumn, increased and deceased
in the meaningless
What cannot be said, therof be silent,
what cannot be said, the thoughtcrime of now,
revealing unsaid, the facecrime of violence
dissent that’s forbidden, dissent that’s endowed.
All will be well and all will be holy,
and all manner of things will be misunderstood,
in the blink of an eye, in the I of a solely,
in a season called now, in a season of could.
~ Terry Provost