If only the Pope could have told me.
If the old powdered man
could have leaned his wobbling head down
and kissed me with the holy kiss of foresight.
I would have tumbled with less illumination.
I would have tiptoed down the mountain.
I would certainly not have come like Moses
throwing Gods words around.
"Righteousness" like a glass, shattering.
My mind turns inward upon itself
with the question, now, always with
the question. The dark wood spreads
before me, wet with the waters of the Lethe,
twisted branches lifting in one area, allowing me
entrance. But most importantly,
the Wood is downhill, gravity my ownly
power toward movement. Shall I accept
the extended cup? I wait, knowing the ship
of Death is a day away. Oh Beauty,
my light, Oh person of true being,
I cannot climb Jerusalem's steep walls.