Clouds Of Creation’s Breath
by Odin Roark

From the hooded secrecy of its panic,
even as it held tight its fading vacuum of time,
a voice whispered:

Alright.
Speak to me about
clouds of painted breath.

Grizzled time
leaned forward as
its clouds of yesterday
billowed thin toward precipitation.
One’s morsels for redemption
bubble forth from many wanton caldrons of illusion,
satiation of honesty only coming
after regurgitation of fakery,
and the enfolding of truth’s flame.

But panic not,
rather know the inferno of flame’s rhythm and tempo
lives not by the shackles of enslavement,
nor the taunting of control,
but rather like life’s breath
an imprisonment that ceases to exist.

Allow this breath, you’ve created, to sustain,
even as your edification rises into the unknown.
For lest you trust the illumine,
the abyss of icy coals invites and offers only darkness,
that realm where more deception lurks,
where louder screams prepare to
challenge your blackened void of choice.

But will such a journey
be long?

Never ride life on the easy rein,
seek out freedom where the sweat of loins
press hard into the girth of destinations unknown,
even as chthonic demons await beneath,
their honeycombs with scorpion stings of starvation
ready their lure with milk-white seduction
should you succumb to their poisoned promises of sweet nectar.

And signs.
Will there be warnings?

Such dependence is folly.
Goad your mount.
Trust rather the pure allegory of the moment,
that ever-faithful place void of manipulation or planning.

Gallop past the brambles of impatience
toward the realm of nature’s perpetual perfection..
Allow the threshold of death to always be with you
trusting the last step across into the unknown
is where the shedding of fears brings solace,
even as you accept
what once was…

like everyone’s cloud of created breath.