Spiceful Doves

Ron Koppelberger

Spiceful Doves

The wretched offer conjured visions of complete revolt, a barrel of brandy
For a Griffin in cascades of self-restraint, certain escort to the myth of
Tasty shadow and stumbling rank, a reverse fog unlike the mists of drunken
Bliss, dim and in sonatas of lurking fear.
“ Here, a grin for a bottle of Jack, a winged majesty unto the realms of a sated pact, to thee a smokey dream of carnivals and blood, nuance and naught; to thee, a sip for the angels he declared.” The man paused for a moment , blessed by the birth of griffins, unicorns and wombs in rebirth. “a dollop of spirit fer the wont of yer soul,” The bottle of Brandy wine rolled close across the moss laden path.
“ Take it, take it,” a quiet sibilant voice lulled gently. The man paused again and turned to the western sunshine. “ In nights of passion and days of glory,” he whispered. “devour me by the tether of birthmarks and voyages to the grand delusion, trips to the pink and polka dot tigers rage.” The man marked by fate and the wills of his desire, unbidden and enticing all at once, whooped and hollered. “ To the vast land of conflict, I shall resist the tempter, the devil in convicted whiskey sour, I shall resist.” He reckoned this in hues of amber sunshine and hazy lines of resolve. By wise steeples and ancient tomes he found free-will and went on without the drink, the secret poison. In twilight he fashioned a dream for the coming day as he considered the dawn and the tender spiceful doves above.