Aesop's Fables

What drives me to be who I have become
stuck in the purest of fires that reside
in the waves that splash the surface
of the reddest moons and the bluest suns
I feel it like a steady drum roll
building to the beat as my fingers
point to the edge of the earth
where you can find the devil chained
next to versions of my former self

What compels me to believe in fables
written by Aesop himself decades ago
with a stone pencil and burnt paper
talking animals and mute blind men
standing guard over table scraps
moving against the flow of the winds
sinking to the top of Mt. Everest
only to fall back up all over again

What has me struck like a young child
building a castle in the wet sand
watching the makeshift rivers fill up
with salty promises and blooming flowers
taken from a garden belonging to no one
I feel the seed split and take root
as human philosophies are debated
amongst scholars and the common folk
only to be proven wrong by beggars