Oh Anon
How art thee like a roasted tulip?
Or a succulent butter cookie?
Does thee not cry like a wounded deer?
Or a bipolar Dr. Seuss with Green Eggs
And Ham
Does the world not tilt its axis unto the Americas
And embrace spirituality and diversity?
Does thee write,
Does thee crotchet?
Or does thee weave its web
Like the Orb spider on a moonlit night
Caressing its prey
Into goddess fortune?
Oh how I thank thee
With all my breath and
That of postulant status
A warrior at heart
A gem in the light
And a sprightly sight
That makes its way into warmth
Every night.
Thank you for the gifts of which have been superseded
By none other than yours truly
By default I do decree
Your status as pure subtlety
Yet the perpetrator and victim
May remain at rest
As you maneuver through the guild and beyond
With stories of untold flattery
And one night psalms
I bid you adieu
A stranger no more
But do remember this:
The guild is indeed....an open door.
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