I can’t digest the poisonous root
I can’t resist the serpent’s fruit
pale clays become twisted sculptures
and molds like the heart of a vulture
mankind, always, losing pace
wandering lost in cruelty’s grace
wading through hallways and blackened rooms
lured and intoxicated by a sweet perfume
That stings the flesh,
the citric pine,
a ruby red in stained glass eyes
a beautiful soul hums like the sea
trapped inside a pearly conch drum
it sings its hymns to the vast oceans
waiting in the sand