​Perhaps it was chance
that planted the seed,
and fate that it blossomed
in a garden of weed

where he floated across
a cloud of smoke
through hookah pipe castles
with hashish moats

Over crenellated walls
with ghostly sentries
down dark corridors,
opium plenipotentiaries

to a haunted dungeon
where he screamed in vein
disconnected from spirit
clothed only in shame.

In fear and self-loathing
in a corner he huddled
melting more each day
’til little more than a puddle

Flushed from his cell
as effluvial waste
floated down to the Styx,
a river without haste.

With a spark that remained
in the depths of his soul,
he forgave himself
was restored and made whole.

Now follows a path.
since spiritual resurrection,
a life of purpose
a meaningful direction.

M. Zane McClellan

Copyright 2016
All rights reserved

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