She floats out the front door only long enough

to proceed down unbidden steps;

steps leading to paths of undergrowth

where the birds don’t sing,

and light lay choked and emaciated –

where shadows fear to go.

____________________

Like a bird she drinks from murky fountains

but wouldn’t think to spit out what readily refreshes.

Her heart beats a little faster

as grisly, knotted and dusty food

pushes and strains down a parched throat.

It seems to do the trick.

____________________

But tricks are just that – a sleight of hand,

pandering to the lesser of two evils.

She jostles in a crowd of nice sounding decisions,

sharing space with saints and snares,

riding rutted roads with regals and renegades,

seeding the garden of her own discontent.

____________________

Quickly now, drink no more

from the bottom up, guzzling through the silt

of sorry excuses, misguided plans, foiled ruses.

See first your reflection in the clear water

of destiny’s desire for damp delight,

baptizing you in sweet reign from heaven.

From the bottom up

April 14, 2013