It’s a book of tradition, a tale of sorrow,
like the snake on the mighty apple tree,
like a river of time, cutting through
generations of living flesh and mind.
It talked of birth and death, of failure
in so many ways, of bad decisions and
horrible results, of tears and bitter laughter,
and of a treasure yet to be discovered.
The contradictory directions the book gave
were not made to be understood. It lied.
And the pages stained with tears and blood.
It taunted. It spun and locked if you followed.
So I stopped, to admire the gaunt moon,
the smile of dim bright splitting the night sky
A beam of starlight shines on the chains
I wear as custom, as part of my body and soul.
As a prisoner of my past, I have long stopped
rattling my cage, my chains. For eons, they
were the only sounds I’ve made. I forgot, how much
time went by, while I listened for signs of rescue.
