The blunt end of Revelation grows in
heaven, from a seed.
Its branches underlie us, too
monumental to be seen
By the legions, billions, ignorant—a
number once including me.
Until one day, down the middle, my
skull was rudely pierced
By a sculptor's knife, an existential
ax-blade—a mere leaf.
As ignorant as I'd been, I swore ne'er again I'd be,
But had I known the fight I'd have to
make the world believe
Or even just acknowledge, to this task
would I've agreed?
I lived before I knew. That knowing
now comes naturally.
Knowing what I know, can I go back,
forget, retreat?
It's too tiring to believe in the
Truth, the kind with a capital T.
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