‘Variationsʼ of us
The sonny is one minute old: a root into the loose terrain. Thereʼs no birth from the nothing. Thereʼs no nothing.
Yet, hit by loveless words, wickedness is the cause of insanity. The thought dictates ‘ʼis not!ʼʼ of what is. And the nothing is done. Identifying love is getting out the nothing we did. Therefore I am the sonny. The root. Youʼre the steps that never fail to wake me up.