Gold Road

The solid myrrh and smoke bells swayed.

Along the table, upon the alter, a crumbly mess was made.

The crowd wept,

Up up they looked, swallowing their tongues with song.

Choking chests and thumping hearts bore

the weighted pen,

Drip Dripped, on pages, buttery thin.

Smaller faces with good graces

Pulled their cheeks to grin.

Their heads were light

Not heavy like the rest.

Their hearts were soaring,

Not sinking through their chest.

And the sun broke through the fog

Elating all the best

The fog that fell, hovered over,

Sunk in and,

Consumed all the rest.