Holding hands and dancing in a circle,
the children laughing all the while
the hidden smirks
the broken promises
and casting the first stone with ease;
tease
then release into the confusion
a rite of passage off the platform
before you could form your own worldview
true to the moment and sore to the point of no return
falling to the ground and cracking the spine
of a book that's been read twice from a dusty old shelf on the library.
The litany of brahmanical priests leading me from sunrise
and dropping me into the crazed cacophony of individuality,
I cannot chart these waters with somebody else's broken moral compass,
and with the astrolabe that emerged from the lips of Venus,
nor by the sun that burns my lost chakras.
I put up a feather bed on the balance tip of a crescent moon
and rock till the day begins.