Tongue Waggery

What stilted foolish pride that spittles from your lips. Black heresy of rationality to connect imaginary dots. There is not water wet enough to make your mouth moist. In all this air, all this hot hot air the things that steam forth from out your teeth melts the fruit of calm.

The fruit of calm. That calamity of peace and stillness. It is bright and dim, never enough light to offend, never enough darkness to disturb a man's voyage. The fruit of calm is growing abundantly and your opinions are weeds, an ocean of weeds descending upon my crop. My labor of peace. My divine stillness is saddened by your sensitive tongue waggery. Your poverty would be cured by this fruit. Your reckless understanding which blinds many men is curable with this fruit.

This tart, sweet, still, bright and beautiful fruit. When you are over your sickness and laboring in the orchards of peace you and I, together, we will cut out your tongue. Fertilized the soil with it. Crushed and ground, spread out over the seeds. With patience your tongue will be watered. It will grow with the fruit, mature, ripen, juicy.