Born again, born
afraid
of the light
that was exploding
from outside of the cave.

Before, he was a slave
to the black and white hue that shone
into and onto the cave
walls, which were like those in a sanitarium’s
halls: grim.

On them played shadows
and he watched the callow
two dimensional people be sheep
till one day he was born
again,
born afraid
as he walked out of the cave.
He was saved
by a loner named Bukowski
who took him to his house and offered
him a stale beer and an open set of thighs.
He was surprised by the greenery,
by the scenery. Into fortune’s
lap he leapt
and slept

until he was born
again a putti
with small, downy wings
and a voice that could sing.
He threaded melodies
and settled into a comfortable
ease, lounging all day in the opulence
of Heaven.
Never having to answer prayers,
he sat on clouds and watched the Scared.
For them he sang his tune,
which when mixed
with the noon air becomes an explosive
ray of light.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...