For Such is the Kingdom

There are only so many

ways you can pen of

innocence. Do it with a quill

and you’re precluded.

For who has conferred

the right—to write with another’s soul?

How do you know

the gull won’t circle

back, scan the grit of sand

for what is theirs?

And why assume a circle?

There are twenty

trillion shapes from which to

choose. Every Magen David—

trigons that wouldn’t stay put.

Why do we

bleed out and never in?

Ink has the viscosity

of life.

I have never seen

the blood of birds.

Maybe it has lingered in Aquila.

Or is the colour of

our air. I was told

that I could spot it if

my orbs & palms were clenched;

focused like The Thinker

of Rodin. He would have

found his answer—had he raised

his gaze to Sol—stumbling with every

step is but a trifling sum to pay.

Water’s not as limpid

as we thought.

Cup it in your

hands before you drink. See

what’s never seen. Faith is

so much certitude

you explode.

Flowers unfurl like

sails whenever a

zephyr clears its throat.

The hidden

know we’re watching.

That’s why those who haven’t vision

are selected. Bartimaeus

in the shadow

of the Christ.

I only spy your sigh

when it is freezing. When a

surface is so thick

you cannot drown.

You alight a mourning

candle just to blow it out

again. There’s a sacred

kind of sight that it

bestows—when only one

of your pupils swells,

allowing a riddle

to pass.  

This was to be a poem

about the children. Stretching

out their arms to touch

the Lord. Or deliver their

breath to the wind—

the mother of our flight.

Even when it’s still

it’s always there. Wings are merely

hands which fail to doubt;

a kite in stagnant sky

that skiffs its sea.

Evanescing clouds

which scale the

blind eye of the sun.

Andreas Gripp

April 1, 2026

RF Photo