Poetry

The knot was broken 
from the waist, 
as if we were struck 
by a bolt. 
 
Thinking must stop. 
Violence was there within 
the pods, to explode and 
eject the seeds. 
 
The silent rape of a 
sleeping book. You cannot 
tear off the pages, 
limb by limb. 
 
You will not read the 
past. Would not write 
the future. The present roars 
through the window starting a brush fire.