Corked and stored,
forgotten in cob-webbed corner
Sealed behind bars of bone
Labeled poison, object of myths
Whispered about but never addressed.In famine, stores are depleted
Well run dry, mouth like cotton
Heart racing, pulsating longing
Golden liquid, hallucinatory mirage,
oh, for a drop.Curious glances to mysterious black
Of nether regions of consciousness
Mind replaying childhood tales of tragedy
Sure to come if the bottle is unstopped.Meanwhile, I am dying.
A dungeoned desert fettered
By expectations, by oppression
Tentative steps into the dark, rattling bones
Hand outstretched, tips touching cold glass
Feeble fumbling, willing to risk
Consuming poison as final actBreaking the seal with teeth bared
New strength wrests crusty cork
Boom! Fountain erupts, a glorious floodIt was mislabeled.
Not poison.
Holy desire.
Joseph Martin, 18 Feb 2025
Inspired by reading “Human: How our deepest longings lead us home” by Matthew Lewis
