A spirit, contemplates as an outlier to the kingdom of flesh.
Warm pressurized blood, circulates existence to the blind.
Can love be calculated?
Are there scales built to weigh the tarred stick of hate?
Where are the jars that hold sorrow, like rotten candy pellets?
A spirit, knows the bitter bite of drinking pure evil,
measures the value of light.
If the libation is enjoyed, light is a lost commodity,
and has no value.
If the burning drink, causes nausea and vomiting,
then light, framed in golden beams
has its depth of value measured and defined.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert