A Man Bedevilled

When a man is tasked beyond his station,

and cast in role that will grind his fibre to pulp,

Sometimes he will have it in him to leap over a

rushing rapid and escape an end as a beast’s meal;

Other times he may find his weight rather feathery.

Like when he wakes in the twixt of blaring wildfire,

eyes stung blind, and chest too stuffed with wanton soot to

scoop a long enough breath to keep the senses above panic.

Then he may find manhood a force too formless to summon. 

And worse, the gods too indifferent to lend a staff to lean on; 

for gods have their mind, and mortal concerns  

are as valuable as pearls in a child’s palm.

When a man finds himself thus beset,

neither Reason, nor Faith-

for all their fine bearing on the spirit, can conjure a miracle 

to reign in the wailing winds fanning the flames.  

Only Fate, with its wry, twisted, humour,

can whisk Chance from beloved slumber,

and cool to an ember,

the greedy flares baying for his flesh.

The man thus beset,

holding onto feathery being by nifty thread,

must find peace in surrender,

Only when unburdened by the fixity of form,

is he truly free. 

2015