the slinky spring of syncretism

four crops are ripe right now,
due to fester in the fallowed dew.

when the rigid homunculi
begin to stomp their creepy cadence
will you lock-step under a sign,
with a television for a grainy head
and a vacuum for an absent heart?

(thoughts projected and sniffles whooshed
under a random banner)

when we merge
the cross and the ankh and the crescent and the star
we are only delivered a bigger inkblot:

inscrutability credibly rules,
gives birth to the certain knucklehead.