by Atlas Roark

Oh wicked, scorned

temptation

cast not your stones

at me

and let me be

as the toddler:

third-eye walking

on trackless, wind-swept sands,

tracing subtle intention

upon the soft, sun-tickled

grains, and staring sagaciously

at the myriad depth

of the submerged kingdom.

Wicked western winds,

must you so softly chant

those half-feared,

half-known revelations?

Must you, child of cold

and bright and silent moon

cast such a pale

exposition upon my

fragile countenance?

Where is the sacred body?

Will someone draw me,

delicately by the hand,

into the clear light of dawn?

Which of the seas should

one sail to reach

the lucid shores of

a Loving Kingdom?