The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Mother Sophia

Worn and wizened, hanging
low the roots that bore
the forbidden fruit,
the uncarnal knowledge
of intuition's eradication
of our uncertain principles.

The soft cosmic fur
purr of her projections
enthralls even Narcissus
as Ganymedes sleeps afoot
and the serpent regurgitates
under the weight of her heel.

Her heaving births tick
the clock of spastic
equilibria, sweeping away the
egoic libraries, detritic words
of the elite and gnostics
who mistake power for virility.
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