Born of soil
walking barefoot to be understood
The roots that grew skyward
trotting about confused
Alone in breath, lonely in death
suspended midflight
Tugged at tireless
by limpid conscience
and desires dirtied
Each drop of delight
dipped in the brine of guilt
A coin with two faces
unseen and tossed about
to get over the uncertainties
A trick of the undecided mind
when the two faces have never met
or known the other to even exist
While one savours the sunshine
The other broods in cold night
Waiting to avenge the winter that is
not of its making
The two might make a coin what it is
Yet even to itself, the two faces of the coin
are nothing more than a fiction dicey.
The conundrum of a coin complete.
A sordid Saint, a burning conscience
A limpid guilt or a desirable vile
Neither exists without the other
lying in wait
to make the picture complete.
A picture perfected by fate,
inherently imperfect
A human that is as much heathen
as divine all the same.