On Listening to Homer

Hypnotic words
carry me across
the fences that
corral daily thought
to explore the densely
wooded slope where
mushrooms grow on tall trees.
Freed from cultivated fields,
I creep forward,
climbing a hill
to map the vista,
crawl into a cave
to search for glyphs.
There beyond
the reach of sunlight,
in the realm of pale snakes
and poison frogs,
I see, by my trusty torch,
an arrow, crude and yellow,
directing me deeper.
I tread a path of loose stones,
feeling them tumble
beneath my boots.
Wee live bats cling to the ceiling.
I see the ashes of old fires
where others have warmed
themselves, cooked a meal.
More arrows, signs from other
travelers, guide me
around boulders to a trail
worn smooth.
Compelled by curiosity,
calmed by the arrows,
I find a stream, and beside it,
a frayed book that falls open
to the place the spine is broken.
My flashlight moves
over rich lettering
on stained, thick pages.
On one page, my eye picks
letters from the florid script:
L O V E.
Thrilled to see the letter rise
from the twisted text,
then disappointed that my
fearsome journey has led
not to new and stunning prophesy
but to the tired message of
all other soulful trips.
Oh well.