In the Clouds

Bring yourself, oh mortal, down
from strata high above,
perhaps we should remind you
that attention is not love;
It’s fine to think you’re welcome
here among us in our midst,
still, you might not care to hear
that you’re no better than the rest;

The boldness of your rally is
beyond what some can bear
while your brothers, sisters carry
all the stardust to your hair;
Let it twinkle deep inside you
so you know that you are blest,
while you eat and shit and suffer
in the galleys with the rest;

It gets lonely, I’d imagine,
you unable to decide
if those gathering around you
only jump on for the ride;
still, you yearn for fame and fortune
while the vacuum grows within
even thought at times you wonder
who’s the butterfly or pin;

On you ramble and you roll
exchanging favors for a smile,
and you know the jig gets hard
when you are dancing all the while;
never pausing, rarely stopping,
the insanity goes deep
and it fills you to the eyeballs
spreads like fungus on the creep;

Then the questions do provoke you
with self loathing and a jinx
when it strikes hard with a blight
you can’t endure like desert Sphinx;
that you’re drowning in delusion
feeling worthless to the core,
as your long-sought admiration
has reduced you to a whore;

Still, awash within the knowing
you’ll survive this, will endure
you await the dispensation
like some bounding, drooling cur;
let me say this with compassion
for your ignorance runs deep:
it’s time for pulling back the sword,
that journey is complete.

 

 

Gods and Elves

She is an archivist of the spirit,
cataloguer borne of those bred
to map and dangle
from family trees, having loosed
the mantle others gathered up gladly.

The records she tends,
mental file cards smelling
of musty library drawers marked
in alphabetical sequence,
grasping worn curved brass pulls
on oak boxes labeled Unknowable.

Some may postulate unafraid,
marching front and forward
interfacing with throngs of the disenchanted
fighting demons of doubt and desire
for life to once again prove itself predictable
like the preacher promised

Hellfire and damnation
or heavenly angels singing praises
to the One, which is You,
if only your soul is redeemable.

She is the wee elven one in the back
of the cobweb-strewn bookstore
poring over tomes, gathering bits
of wisdom, tracing archaic paths trod
by those brave enough to question
the face of the gods of man.

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