THE BROOM BY A SACRED STONE by Mide Benedict

But found out that it hides in a plate of some chromic heart
Refuging in the structure of a deep down dome.
Which is soon to be known when time's metamorphic stand

I found a broom by the secured sacred stone

Of a greenish god whose eyes are White

The broom has heads of browns and blacks

Tied together by a black rope smiling like July's evening sun

They call it change.

And as one man passed by it, as I watched with my eyes

His hands, covered by the long and huge apparel on him,

Swinging left and right with a swash and swash sound.

With a strange familiar gesture on his face, a gallery of smiles came to be.

This act of his I tried to melt

But found out that it hides in a plate of some chromic heart

Refuging in the structure of a deep down dome.

Which is soon to be known when time's metamorphic stand

Has, like a clean wool be rubbed and caught in its greatest

Misery of a smelling dirty mud

Rubbed off its pure soul and stage like a caught-in-a-storm sun.

They call it change.

Though it's the same mountain that it wants to sweep

The same one which has never been clean.

They call it change, I hope this change does not change all, but forget itself.

Mide Benedict

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