The Art of Misinterpretation

Let the stilts propel you
into the vast unknown
beyond the highest of pyres
where the holiest walk
where the clouds become turgid
turquoise and moist.
There you will find him
In his struggle to hoist-
our sins, our pride
our glory, our choice-
to believe in a faulty being
who has caused wars
with his voice.
Drunk is the man
with the lack of better understanding.
For wine is the poor mans' liquor
so he drinks whiskey to watch man suffer.
Brave is the man to call himself his son
and bolder is the man
to write in his voice.
In one thousand years
when this is read
the art of misinterpretation
will surely be dead-
or will it?

Non-Fiction 2011
©Bobby Ruelas