The Edge of the World
Of yore, a gold-gilt structure stood tall
upon a mountain
there it remined on for ages
as an ancient vine-veined temple
a crumbling ruin tottering
on the edge of the world.
Within it a ghostly priest dwelt
waiting long for a sign
shuffling from one alter to another
while the edge of the world
drew ever nearer.
Then all tipped over….
some say it was always a heap of clouds,
just a hollow construct.
The mountain it was built upon
simply melted into nothing
a massive shrine tumbling away.
Now there is nothing to hold on to, or see,
nothing to build upon, just endless sky
where all falls as a feather swept into
a bottomless well.
This allegory
is the tale of a religion that required
too many gilded girders to hold it up,
or it is a parable of a Mind
that knows naught of its power
to deceive or create.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment