We are sleeping, breathing Death’s solemn sigh,
Led by the hand of a jewelled spectre
With an impish kiss and a painful cry.
For many who gaze upon the rector
Worship only the mouthpiece of the Lord:
Let the bloodstream flow with golden nectar
Our noble Olympians once adored,
Drink with spirited intoxication
From the bottle Dionysus once poured.
Mortals can only ponder creation
Or else dismiss it with a wrathful stance,
Little do they know of sweet salvation
That comes from mastering the game of Chance;
All chips advance along the spinning wheel,
Only one knows the number in advance,
His or her fortune, amassed by guile and zeal
For the future and not for current fate,
Rare hopes wrapped inside a shimmering seal.
© 2017 AGP