The resolution of the saints

Forget the timekeeper of the spindle bearing
bombs of milk and honey, let it go,
Let us entrap gratitude for the journey
we have known, instead of the now,
Let us not let the sun go down
on the present moment without action
That emulates the protest of the defense
and anger towards the present moment

Like lilac dreaming, we are not alone
among the flowers in the field,
We are not alone among the bees
and concealed garden snakes,
Hunting the great parade, forever
in conquest of the labored journey,

Always in metered nomadic dispensation
for lost tribal elders taking their place
like one in matrimony with God, with the Forever moment
of tempered logic that abstains from misguided passions

Sobriety of thought is a form of protest,
one that does not give way
To the wayward dismissal that comes in opposition
to the resolution of the saints, coming
After us, before us, and beside us,
like three pairs of honeycomb gestures, three hares,
They have seen themselves out of the picture,
and for very good reason,
Allow them a place to return,
among the the paths where the flowers grow
And where the standstill moments
have no pressure to withstand their presence