righteousness is rarely right; i don’t know yet how to use it and am intimidated by trying to learn

the gun barks.

without emotion
the words form together
to make what we call

the intent is
one of terror.

the terrified
are never without
their righteousnesses.

the goal is to
love everyone
but every day
another one
makes their terror
into violence,
makes their terror
into the soft,
of hate.

a kid goes to an
unfamiliar door
and rings its bell.

terror crouches.

terror answers the door.
terror grips the gun.
cowardice squeezes.

without assumption,
the sun floats
roundly in our sky.
holding no judgments,
the moon again
reflects light
back to us,

the terrified
and the kind,

the sky is blue and the mountains are covered in white. small bits of black and brown poke through. the moon, nearly full, is gauzy and dream-like, in the still-bright sky.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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