Sybil

Sybil



I climb your stairs,
growing younger as I go,
leaving the wounds
of the street below.
Looking for answers.
Nearing the past,
approaching my future
knocking at your door.

In your corridor
faint traces
of an earthy musk.
A clay vase from which
an Iris grows.

On a table from antiquity,
a polished bowl. Its fruit
you say, was picked
from secret gardens
in Old Jerusalem.

Inexperienced,
I stand and wait, watching
as ancient ritual
takes hold of us.

You say:
“The husk of my fruit,
may be dry and wrinkled
but beneath its flesh
weeps a magic juice,
miraculous in its flow.
Like red wine, bittersweet,
filling the mouth, bathing
the throat, savor the taste.

Let it come to you.
Don’t search it out.
Existence is conception,
creation, emotion, response.
Life is long, never long enough.
To be alive is to be lost.
All is in learning to let go,
feeling the earth spinning
as it slips from under your feet.”


Scott Malby

Posted over on Hawkwind Creations