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.

 

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