Purified Ashes

From trodden ashes does this morose and broken spirit rise

One held prisoner in times silent and linear warp was I.

For I was beaten and abused,

By the vicious oppressors with dark brooding eyes.

With stones of misery for my bed

And nothing but biting memories of sorrow on which to rest my head,

I shut my ears to the constant voices that spilled forth into the night,

The ones which left their invisible tracks across my dulled and waning sight.

For it is so, the minions of old had of me, a strong and unrelenting hold.

I beseeched,

I begged,

but for relief

This day,

Yet………

Neither sway nor give would they….

As I chased into their giddy day,

For hideous laughter erupted

throughout this chasm of doom,

As dangles of spurred spangles,

with hint of hope did loom.

Grasp now did I,

at the golden sequin

dancing before my eye.

For through fire and night,

I on eagle wings took flight,

Leaving behind this palace of doom,

Soaring ever skyward

to where angels loom.

Upward past

The furnace blast,

Ever onward

To a safer shore,

Alas, forbearing

a peace worth sharing.

Alas, arising

From the purified ashes

which lay at heavens door.

J. Allen Wilson © 2004