On Wings Of Fire
In chasms wide and chasms deep
The dragons all their treasures keep,
While on the mountaintops galore
The devils spread their store.
A bane for eels no seabed knows.
No soothing thing a mustard grows.
A yearned-for place, though far away,
Who carefully goes won't stray.
With tongues of flame that slice like glass,
Through mangled tanglings we pass,
Where truth comes up in bubbles small
(As though it mattered not at all),
To clutter up our thinking space
And raise its gracious, sacred mace
Where tepid tempers meekly brew
What once was me and once was you,
Till evening comes and darkness falls,
When conscience screams and silence calls
Thoughts whose knowings raise our fears
And show us cares for future years.
by Robert Hampton Burt