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