March 17 by The Running Son
As things will, the light show
and intense focus passed
for good or ill. To fill the void left
I couldn’t have guessed
what was waiting when
the god bottle spilled.
It was a theft: the shredding
of a newly enfibered soul
set to be baptized into the fold.
It was in jest: the heady hurricane
thrust of a youth suddenly
forward waking into death, old.
It’s the old story: man forages for gold
and sure as his own image
strikes fools glory before folding
to fetch a grander sparkle
but finding ore, me a grain
of sand among sands
bland as the spackling in the cracks
of the ark. Yet if I must be set apart
then I am the candle wedged haphazard
in the porthole’s sill, a sputter
of blue light fading slim as a rill,
running thin into the distant night
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.