Bleaker’s Repository
Infected with purpose
Out of the flesh world
Into the womb of beginning
Taking away your crutch
Forcing your mind
Upon you like a tiger
Vengeful with claws
Knowing both darkness and truth
Under the impetus of love
Beyond your pile of sticks
They do not add up
To this final purpose
This calling of all wills
Aligned with the universe
Perched at the tip
Waiting for the falling over
The flood of unreason
Bored through with the wind
Three generations of them
Still the light pours through
Upon Bleaker’s lowly place
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