Journeys Of Light And Ambrosia

Tinsel in the shadows slipped between the heart’s cracks,

death anoints it darkness upon a tomb of thoughts,

the soul migrates before the sun’s altar

with eyes that look for gold or night

and breathe in a gasp of cloudy paths

or let the pollutants sting the soul,

then either slip into the cocoon of ashen elations

a shrouded, suffocating chamber in the mind

unless the heart decides warmth is the vision

full of power and vitality

ready to rise instead of suffer the slumber

as a rehearsal for the grave.

 

It is the appetite within the spirit

where tastes are culled from whirlwinds

blown before the mind

off fields sown as wastelands or fertile fruit.

 

What remains the irony of cerebral diets

is how the stale and putrid refuse

from the decaying compost

always rotting in the darkness

becomes an ambrosia of embalmed passions

so addictive in its power to drain any essence

of what energizes to cherish life.

 

Each day we stroll upon that path

some seek nibbles of the dessert that cripples,

others search the fire to fill the insides,

but the hour passes anyway

just depends on if we elect

to enjoy the steps or the risk of blisters.