Hand Full of Dust

egret morning-cropped

Have I given over
my objectivity
for implicit desires
and unrecognized lust
finding myself fearful
of Eliot’s handful of dust
will not Aphrodite
sweep me away
to chambers of comfort
to rest
my hooded stranger awaits me
upon the river bank
begging to be faced
more prideful
than Achilles’ tears
predict my own rebirth
triumphant I stand
at the waters edge
looking back lovingly
at the rickety raft
and face unfrightened
the entangled enlightenment
while trying to remain grateful
to the son
the desireless want
and expectation
ignite the valid passion
where the beautiful competition
would be fought
I dig my heels
in focus
and ready myself
to make chase
but there is no need
for I have thought of the key
and now see the door
to this prison
and peering through
to the open more
follow Candide wanderings
towards Galilean horizon’s


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