Guardian

They form a circle on the square,
irrational and short on air
like in an ancient tragedy.

Hungering for daily bread,
they chant out loud, "Off with his head!"
he holds it high with dignity.

'Midst pitchforks rise the torches' fires,
with no delay their scapegoat dies;
the land now doomed to anarchy.

As chaos rules yet once again,
I slip into my mental pen
where I hide my peace of mind.

There, between the emerald twigs,
hidden well ‘neath stones and sticks,
my old guardian and friend I find.

She shows the way through cracks and creeks,
through labyrinths of days and weeks
to space of reason and rhyme.

Dalíesque shapes on skies graze,
Vedic choirs embalm our race,
both animal and man alike.

A lunar shard shatters the night,
with before now unseen insight
as hyperbolic thunder strikes.

Months, they pass, and years do too,
yet I'll always remember who
is there to take me far outside,
if only for a little while.