They have never known the peace that trickles
Softly, gently, steadily, like a stream.
They have never seen the sky as an effulgent
Array of carrot, cotton, and sea.
They have never let go.
They have never stepped up.
They have never plunged a fist into
The pale rivers of irregularity,
Whose plumed waters swirl ecstatically Heaven-bound.
They have never looked into the mirror.
They have never drunk deeply from
The cup of truth;
The goblet shod with gold
As soft as eyes,
And sapphires
As deep as thought.
They have never loved.
They have never built a skyscraper from the top down,
Scrawling like paint over a reality
Not existing.
They have never left the rigid Styrofoam confinement, which they call tomb;
That cursed box knitted of grey, grey, grey.
They have never lacked four shadows.
They have never known disconformity.