Triumphant

God in heaven, peasant on earth,

Clawing dirt for cheap gold, silent or whining.

But on a day akin to the past,

I cease to perspire and stand to rise again.

On up, I climb: clutching, fumbling,

walking, suffering, succeeding. Closer to the peak,

the apex, I fly like Dante for freedom. O where art

thou Virgil and your poetry as guide, dear Beatrice

to strengthen mine waning soul, and the mighty winged

Seraph whose sword will write my sins on my head?

I carry these burdens to this dark purgatory

as heavenly fire incinerates them to fertile ashes,

fluttering to the corners of the lofty world.

 

To the sides, behind, in front, are my enemies.

They were once my friends, were always enemies.

But in ascension all creatures who seek the

open sky are foes in the great game.

We clutch, fumble, walk, suffer, but all will

fail but one. Only one will rise above the mud

from whence all creatures emerged.

So I slay and fight; I seize onto corpses and

breathing rivals pushing ahead, upwards.

Freedom awaits me; freedom awaits us all.

It will only accept one victor.

 

At last, I rise and stand firmly between binary worlds.

I look: left, to the right that is left, left now right, up, down,

In all the directions for in that highest spot I hold all directions:

I see and taste, hear and smell, feel and know all things.

Crying, water tasting sweet, not bitter anymore,

fulfilling the vacuum with joy.

 

Then, silence.

 

I stand there. There is much waiting. Much pause.

Old father Time reaps the constructs for me.

An oddness strangles me, surrounds me.

Then I begin to realize: It is so cold, so lonely.

 

So I come down the mountain, return

To beautify my garden and the land for love.