the path inevitably taken

the faith to put good a good message into the world, an essential reflection of every poet from then to kingdom come

Comfortable habits tickle the skin like a breeze,
a parachute open as the mind
functions maximally to ensure a soft landing.
Natural as the roots of a willow in damp soil
I say what I know not, perhaps above my head
a generation flows through my stream;
like Atlas the sky has its worth,
blue essence held still like Narcissus's reflection
for any eyes willing to see.
Guilt is a solemn storm when self manifests in bloom,
intended to be selfless before the son,
a faith as good as incense in verse,
fragrant but at the will of the wind;
perhaps my words don't hold the weight of the good Samaritan.
My insides, apart from ninety-eight point six degrees of contention,
are on loan as the architecture of good intention,
frightened, when my stomach drops,
with vision of the road to hell paved in gold.
The tragedy of a post-modern tale
is that the author is dead as the ghost he carries;
there is no hero to this story
besides he who will take you to Elysium.

Author's Note

as always, any comments and criticisms are greatly welcomed and appreciated; i will always return the favor :)