by Lynn Michael Martin
For seven years I walked with demon guides,
divining deathless words for mortal men;
tales of dark wisdom they gave me besides,
draining my soul and filling it again
with darknesses of suffocating airs—
When they spoke cunning fates, my lips spoke doom,
but my own heart knew sleep that drowned all cares,
leaving me in a throbbing, blind-swirled tomb.
But through the savage mist I peered, at times,
seeking some light, if wavering, or plain,
or whether it reminded of my crimes.
Then these men spoke, and through me scattered pains
quick and electric, and my gods shrank, awed,
and then I knew these men were men of God.
Lynn Michael Martin is slowly learning that he is not the center of the world.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy