manna

like an over-ripened fruit
juices freely flow
pooling, sticky on the tile
solitary footsteps tracked through

look over your shoulder
a dim light beckons from
a splintered door
what you controlled
the things you held
still worthy of the price

wandering the desert floor
forty days and nights
hungry for the taste of manna
and all that you were promised

Poetry by M.J.B. is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License