LOVING THE TOURIST

Into wide mouths they risk all kind of strange

Sour sacraments of such they never dreamed,

Channel the tribes extinct and rituals gleaned,

And both let blood their savior. Naught will change.

Blond trekkers come, ascend and gape and soar

By tracks once worn by pilgrims then aglow.

Two worlds, two dreams, and yet it is as though

Each traveller trod in search of heaven's door.

Instead of votives, selfies light their claim,

Instead of lambs their currency is bills,

The chatter, thrill, enlightenment and ills...

The centuries though pass remain the same.

My pensive path leads slowly. Let them be.

My stuff destructs with separate bliss and free.

– Emily Dickinson

5/14/2017