East of Mount Olive

East of Mount Olive, the Old told me, "Don't let the raven take your wisdom away, Lest it be flown to a higher limb." And like a fool, I failed to listen And followed home the wrong Sage. Who, through its distinguished masque did show, An illiterate face wrung with age. And yet it was old, it was not right, For it lacked the sacred core I needed to follow. So I supped and left quietly, Dreading to hear the watchman's cry, And quickly sped to Mama's fur And slept till the Son rose, And returned to Mount Olive, repenting. And still I repent. Written February 25th, 2002 © on Feb 25 2002 02:23 PM PST, Dwaine Nolte   0 • 13