A fumbling forward by Jonathan L. Wells
He is walking and hears a voice,
So thirsty says the fire
He blinks back in agony, knowing he must continue on.
But if eyes could talk they would cry “enough!
For surely we were made for more than this!
This gazing into darkness
This tantalizing terror.
He plucks one to keep the flames at bay.
And hands like smoke float high in praise…
One reaching towards the darkness, one reaching towards the light
Shall he submit to these hollow pleasures?
sludge and silence, empty delights?
He cuts one hand to lighten the load.
One hand is enough anyhow.
He hops upon the foot still standing
Having lost the other on the way.
(It’s alright though
It merely weighed him down)
Call him Mr. Potato Head if it suits you.
Those pieces lacked are gained in time
He shall continue on.
And the fire still speaks.
his thirst is still greater.
The Fountain is ahead of him
His head and neck,
stone wrapped round
And should he fall he knows he’ll not be found
He says, “I will not lead them astray”
The rope is cut, he continues on his way
To his suffering nostrils
A saltiness in the air
An ocean where the fountain stood.
The roar of waves crashing
Produces stillness all around.
The fire’s voice grows thin.
He enters in.
The saltiness makes all else what it truly is.
Reflections and figments fade.
His journey ends and begins