The riptide pulled and weighed us down, swimming in our shoals. It bent us in our will to win, oh weary, sorry souls. Oh tiresome, terrifying days when scholars moved to preach that all of Christendom was ours, but always out of reach. Oh weary, sorry souls, I cried for all of us, who're driven, wherein unconscious mind, so tuned, lays bare the ego given. Always, it seems, beyond our reach, genetics never fail to teach us how we must survive, not how to trim the sail. Ego's given winds may blow, but odysseys must end. For quests beyond our human bounds, Inferno may portend. Just when this sea of troubles weighed too much on mortal coil, the magic of encircling arms became the perfect foil. So I reset the sails for home, embracing Vesta's heart; discovered Marais' secret strength: in concert, ne’er apart. © 2013 John Anstie All rights reserved. [Author's Note on this poem is here.]
©2020 John Anstie
All rights reserved