From the Kingdom of Heaven to the Land of the Natives,
I have travelled. I have jumped over the chasms,
and flown over the fiery roads,
all in search of solace.
They have taken a quarter of me,
and filled my guts with poisionous fumes.
Where once I was a pumpkin in ice,
I am now a sore bruise,
subjected to salty sweat and scorching heat.
The flies leave me alone.
They see no point in buzzing in my periphery.
The natives keep a wary eye on me,
afraid of what I am, or perhaps what I stand for.
Those days of sipping ice wine, and eating roasted salmon,
trudging though the slippery snow barefeet,
they are no more, nor are the memories very vibrant.
I have looked far and wide for that piece of me,
which should have been my innermost core.
Solace, where are you?
I say, Look look and on I move in it's quest.
Understandably, the Natives think I am queer,
when I demand a tender steak and beer,
they say that although by birth and appearence I am a seer,
they can never trust me. They have never understod me.
I have lived with the Gods and spent happy hours in their company,
and partaken of the glorious pleasures of the kingdom.
I have wallowed in the splendid delights,
I have swalowed the hues, the shades and the sights.
Like you, I am a sum total of many parts,
bound by a thin coil of thread.
Having never seen the world,
they are amazed when I ask for bread.
The splash of Scotch in my crystal glass,
the sweet sound of the golden fluid as it flows through icy crevices,
hover in my memory and tingle the nerves.
The stately mirror merely observes.