Ego
Cathedral air, where egos go to fly,
grows stale in corners dark and high above,
where spider-priests suck reason’s juices dry,
and smothers any scent of earthy love.
In murder zones, where ego-orgies rage,
are found the evil, ignorant and sick,
with pre-death faith in self the only sage.
That height and depth bear ego’s painful tic.
Come hurricane, implode the dingy pane!
Suck clean debris from mind-entangling net!
Come ‘copter shine, reveal that ego’s slain
its tender touch, an inter-conscious debt.
To ego’s narrowed purpose flows no air
of superego’s civil urge to care.
© 1996 John F. Deethardt II
(Last updated on November 22, 2004 )
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