Ezra's Rite Poem by William Coyne

Appearing from my slumber's vapors,
Ezra's lines on toilet papers,
held by soiled fingers reaching,
extending Dionysian teaching.

'If you seek to know my write,
you must revel in the rite,
risk insanity and bare
your soul to what I've written there.'

Wide eyed in sleep I shook and shivered
at what my fading Pound delivered.
I reached out with my ghostly arm,
took the verses, grace or harm.

I found myself on dreamy ridges,
spanned by hosts of rope drawn bridges,
over gullies, rivers, gorges,
not one lit by moon or torches.

I felt my way easily over the first,
and crossing over, thought I'd burst
with glee to pass beyond the gullies,
without a stain and nothing sullied.

The rivers roared below the next crossing,
boulders crashing with the strong current.
With each step I quaked and worried,
that I should fall and wash up injured.

The bridge had held me save and sound,
as I inched over, but I found
the knots were not so tightly bound
as the other gullied ground.

The final bridge I stood and pondered,
each rope frayed to string,
limply swaying in a breeze.
No bottom of the gorge I saw,
below, a gaping beckoning yawn,
silent, sneering, low echoing, 'Death! '
Fear took away my trembling breath.

I took the bridge and clutched the string,
and midway looked back to see
no ridge that I had stood upon,
and forward, no land.

Frozen in terror by my fear,
I heard a voice crawl in my ear,
'There is no other side from here,
only the deepest feelings you may fear,
or embrace, but come ye back and visit often.'