We are Sleeping

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

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