Censorship

God, I'm tired

The old man threads his boiled needle,

wanders through the city.

Hords of the desperate wait with

cupped hands. He plucks the tired, the

weary from crowd, whispers secrets in

dirt caked ears. Could you imagine the color

of the universe, the

true name of God? He watches bitter eyes

grow wide and new. Sees them

ready to reveal mysteries of the

unspoken. He slips the

bodkin through their lips, silence their

tongues. With no voice,

their silence is wondered.

Their wisdom unknown.