Sonnet 2.2

I sit, close my eyes, and the chatter of the crowd slowly builds like some Debussy impression,
The babble of humanity’s brook, symphonically sweet and soothing.
Hu, I think I’m listening to you. Hearing Hu’s hushed mantra, here in Jubilee park. 
Summer wind like Divine kisses, against my cheek, against trees, against these towers of steel and glass. It’s harmony:
The father’s kiss authorises an electric ramadan cessation,
Once more, imbibe, once more that cosmic obliteration pill.
I find myself a Sumerian Enkidu in reverse, or, closer still, the debased king Nebuchadnezzar:
So many words within the Caliph’s dictionary, but monarchy’s wit is now rendered a dog,
By the radar of humanity’s ongoing conversation. The beast fades into a blonde nirvana.
Know, oh prophet, the holy spirit is alight in the children’s games, the PMs review of their half say, the directors who fret over partnership promotion, and you, oh poet, those lives behind and before you, immersed within this subtle summer sonumbulance, gentle music grace you and those you love.
The creator wills no wrong. Creation is cheer, after all,
And love, love, and love.
Love for all men and women, to proceed on, in the name of Her smile.
Her ways, I would praise, I would enumerate, but they existed prior to number, so how could I enact such a thing?
Mathematics is Her depth, processing us all, producing us all. But today, I sit on the mound beside the bank, under the sun, smiling little ego: how their babble, and His and Her kiss … will be the holy ruin of us all!


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