Holy Hand Grenades
Realize that
Words
Are empty cocoons-
Bent blades of grass;
Art
Is skin shed
And crisping on a rock-
Concentric circles
On the face of a pond-
An empty cicada shell
Clinging to a tree-
Nothing more.
Go beyond –
There you will find
Words can become vehicles of the divine-
And art
Their holy hand grenades.
--unAsleep