Mazes or Elixirs?



How often have we yearned of being,

Swept off your feet and cradled?

My blood,

It rises at the thought of escape and easy perfection

How badly have I strived and begged for Transformation

But all I’ve gotten are sour drips of my own salivation.

Desperate Salivation.

All along the liquid you foolishly call Elixir, is but a mirror

The Law of Conservation prove me differently

Yes,

I’ll admit,

I can see my reflection.

But I cannot submit to the the death of Transformation handed by a tiny glass bottle

Wouldn’t that be foolish? Let me take a sip and see enough to convince me of reckless abandon.

The paradox, the tug of war, the duality of gulping down: potions or poison?

Potions or Poison?

But chilly, wrinkled fingertips wipe off my tears.

The witch, she says to me, in foreign wisdom:

“Thou seeks thyself in helpless self-woven mazes,

not Elixir”

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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