The Book Tells of a House Made from Wax

Impossible sky of cloud and color
Pulsing overhead with the power of the word
Like a blow from heaven, march of drum beats,
Behind it waits the end of days.
The book is written, the pathway is clear—
Walk among the ones who wander
Who did not lose their way, but let it go
To fade into the mist at their back
With eyes forward to the end of the road.
Open my heart to a new truth
And I will know the last one for a lie.
Watch the sky melt like candle wax
If I’m careful, I can collect some
And keep a bit of light going.

The book tells of a house made from wax
Built far beyond the warmth of the sun
And a man inside who preserves the world
To live free within the walls of his prison.
A visitor came, and the man spoke to her of his life
His creations and his love for them.
She told him in return of the true world, rigid, sharp
Beyond the scope of wax to replicate in beauty
And asked him if he wanted to see it.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Though I have no way to escape this place.’
The visitor left, and returned the next day
With a long rope and a box of matches.

Photo by Thilipen Rave Kumar from Pexels

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