a child’s brain is not as structured as mine:
frequencies are more nonspecific;
to treat them as an adult, by design,
would mean that i, and my network, are sick.
My faster frequencies would find no home;
i’d be channeling what could never fit—
passing on a static riddled tome,
muddling what they will never acquit,
a selfish man bent on dumping his back.
The trash would go in both directions,
confusing our child and the friends we’d lack,
undermining civilized protections—
leading to chaos, darkness, and hate.
So i’m careful in a child’s presence,
keen to protect the both of us, to date.
I’m sure, then, to drive the devil hence,
understanding, as i do, His reasons.
I’m seeking conversation when i project,
but i’m overwhelmed but what he shuns,
messages i can’t help but collect—
and, in many ways, i’ve fallen behind.
Duty calls; no time to speak directly
to them—responding to all that i find
in the nether regions of my fee,
the tension that stems from what i hide—
misunderstanding the world around me.
Every message, however, i must abide,
sent in earnest by those i cannot be.
The energy, nonetheless, that i direct
changes me, the oscillator that I see,
when i focus on the love i reflect,
a function of the person i’m meant to be.
But how, among so many, do i choose?
I answer, don’t i, what corresponds
to the natural frequency he’d abuse
on that day of all days, as God responds.
i’m aligned, then, with the person i love,
an address that lives, out there, in space.
thinking only, then, of those hereof,
a network that travels to every place
that i am bound, in my mind, to go.
Perhaps in a day or two i’ll catch up,
and every love that turns to and fro
will find peace when they sit down and sup,
absorbing, then, the background they define.
They will find my answers living therein,
and then every heart that would be mine
will tune, at once, to the drop of a pin.