Blood Ransom

Spiraling
Like a body is sand dunes
That undulates into
Concentric rings
Turning round and round
Into nothing
Till the dust flows blood red
Into the adjoining dry lake
As if the figure is vapor
Sprouting out from itself
Into saplings of wounds
And the trouble with wisdom is
It never comes too soon
But like a tried and tested routine
Takes its time to settle in
Like a face staring down
The sun
Soon gets scalded and burnt
The diversions of deliverance
Have pleasures as tortuous
As a loaded gun
Pointing back at you
In tandem with the hindsight
Of a blood ransom
Creeping slowly back into
The wealth of images
None of which can be segued
Into a seamless transition
Except by letting go of
Both the apparent and the apparition.