Purgatorio

To rest, to sleep,perchance to dreamin the unending deepsof stained glass moonbeams. To feel less than cold stoneand have a skin of granite —to not fear being aloneon a crowded planet… I lie on my cool plinthand bathe in the soft lightof wavering colorful mythsglowing in my soul-night. Yet my bent compass and maplead to undiscovered countrytowards a waiting iron trapfrom which I turn and flee: Surrounded by souls,but no beaming Beatrice awaits.Is my self just a black hole,or am I the angel of my own fate? From the flat, dead rock, I riseto face and feel my weary aches —a small resurrection: just sighsthat I’ll postpone my own wake.