The Quest

The Quest


The air is pungent
with the scent of decay.
Lives dance in shimmying gold
rot on their branches
whither to rose no more.
Elsewhere smiling faces
masks that hide
the deathly grin of finality...

A gentle spring awaits
to purify...

Wash away the lies
sprouted by those
who would see you die
to count their riches
from each strand of hair
their victims cultivate.

To escape you must die
shed this skin
find your peace somewhere
just not here.