Back to the Gods

elaborate further, your once sealed fate
driven, ridden of the New Scrolls far too late
so we’ve come to grips accepting sinister hate
thorough retraction of crystal-turquoise gates
we’ve cleaned our slates in the opportunities
of free chances we couldn’t afford to take

upon the forest floors we carefully derive
the New Sea Scrolls uncorrupt by lies
souls growing weary; Hypnotized
a consummation of victory within loveless demise
granted to the Saints the appointed scribe writes
a manuscript to map the realms of meta-light

the Psychic, the Poet, the Addict and Seer
lastly, given to the gods was the amiable Healer
better to lose them than our favorite Drug Dealer
the Mystic is flailing, it’s best we go retrieve her
from the gardens of Myrrh and Sage
undeniably afraid;
she lies surrounded by Chrysophase
healing her tremors in a mythic malaise
perceptions paralyzed by trance-like states
ablaze in affinity for the final coming days

sent out of awareness in conceptual spells
one oversees the other undersells
dancing rhythmically, melodically profound
sun-kissed memories scatter earthy ground
time-travelling in atmospheres feverishly bound
astral projected; protected by Egyptian pounds
underground lairs inconspicuously sound though
heavy is the cost of each set of spare rounds
lost to Russian Roulette;
just the way she was found

better had the Poet realign or redesign
a secular notion within faux lineal lines
at her poetic approach to sudden death,
emptiness, echoes;
in clear waters she’s subject
hollow voices whispering, “nothing lies next”
wildflowers wilt in dark-seeded respects
a home for the fallen, rejected or vexed
invariably slaughtered though
overrun by her prospects;
the Sky Counsel protects

a most amiable sect
of Elders; sympathetic, searching– they reflect
lying speechless though mind-wandering
through her most plausible regrets
“Nothing’s next” came the answer,
she could now barely recollect;
given back to the gods each individually met
she bares the New Sea Scrolls to the counsel elect,

asking inquisitively, ‘what trials lie next?’
while flecks in her eyes reveal a spiritual annex
death has overshadowed lest we surrender this hex;
her spirit beaming curiously in cerebral unrest
reliable in nature she is granted one final test

however broken, lost in a reality unfit
infected by her Sins, solemn lots met
where true reality convicts; it shifts–
by the once prophetically sent,
the Healer repents

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