Driving home so long
and weary,
trying to stay alert and
heightening my senses, noting
the brown of the grass dead from summer’s heat,
gentle mist of water rising up beneath the wheels, and
the smell of soy and skunk and stale air.
I took a turn
and there I found
the boundary of Heaven and Hell.

To the West:
Colors like watercolor and dreamscapes,
stained chalk smoothed against an endless canvas.
Clouds or silhouettes of immigrant gods –
the Viking, Odin, singing out for war and for blood,
the eyes of weeping Branwen mourning love and lost brothers,
and angels and fae and centaurs and giants,
and still hundreds more
standing at attention,
curling into one another,
forming clouds that framed the
orange-red-golden-yellow sun.
A picture perfect stillness,
but not peace.
Beauteous it was
and so,
deceptive.
And this was Heaven
to the West.

To the East:
Lightning frozen in time,
leaving imprints on the back of my eyes,
scorching my memory.
Deep blues and furious darkness
pushing against its comrades,
who were packed too tightly.
Here, I saw not gods
but demons.
Succubi tempting the tired and wandering traveler,
man-wolves howling at the light-veiled moon,
dragon wings and pointed teeth and claws that could rend the harshest stone.
Terrible and awesome,
they made no pretense
and cried out their intentions into the thunder,
cymbals and timpani and brass
that deafened me.
And this was Hell
to the East.

And the road I was on -
the dividing line.
I was
between good and evil,
between light and dark,
between heaven and hell.

I felt small and weak
beneath those legends and those nightmares.
So I drove all the faster
for I was thirsty for my life
and fearing for the fate of the world.