Caress the softness of true inspiration
and stroke the heart's tales into reality.
the labyrinth of the soul
dusting the gatherings
of the archetypal realms
with a midas touch.
Smiles of truth can be ugly at first glance
and dancing with the devil shrivels faint egos
like salted slugs.
...and she goes,
Sheroes and heroes one and all,
driven by the call...in.
Manic or shamanic?
Just who is it that judges it mad?
In the half life of days veiled by misty logic,
many walk around half dead
like zombie sheep
chasing manufactured pipe-dream tails.
Only when the lambs are slaughtered
can inner transformations, raise vibrations,
and open sleepy eyes
to the delusions eaten from society's vast table.
Pepper then my food, with myths and fairytales,
and quench my thirsts on poetry and metaphor,
lest I too become lazily slug-like
resting my laurels in normality's strangling embrace,
while my soul withers from lack of salt.