The Hesperides and the Dragon

A greyscale of irreligious life.  
I wonder to myself who is this "I" that I see and with whom I identify.  
Following this bouncing ball to its convoluted destination where it slowly loses momentum and rolls into the underbrush.  
Punctured by wild rose thorns, its air seeps out and the loss of pressure is fatal.  
It covers a piece of ground and hides the sparse vegetation that once represented a growing idea, a building block of the ego.  
If only Hope were a weapon.  
If only a simple light could show us the way.  
Those things stand between my perception and the will of the Supersoul, the spirit that pervades all being so each is an heir to their own throne.  
Some are adorned with the hides of rats and shards of bone while others keep charms of gold to decorate their hair.  
This is all too much, too fast, too far away from here.  
The 'here' being the ground of a static charge.  
The music resonates through the dark jungle of confusion, into the head, and across the tribal drums of an awareness of aggressive, primal instincts; to where it will be well-received and re-sent out into the wilderness to penetrate and impregnate the womb of ignorant repetition.
The birth fills the gaping maw of passions driven by an unclean charioteer.
Forcing the primitive faster and farther, to breathe deeper as it  tries to separate the elements from their nature.
Piece by piece a painstaking patchwork comes together forming a grid-like foundation of solid earth rich enough to nurture an orchard of Golden Apples.
A mythological wine made of their fermented peels quenches the thirst of the Gods.  
But the same nectar that slakes those that think themselves immortal is a poison to the soul.
And even as we speak, it brews and peaks, while the Hesperides laugh and light-heartedly dance around the fire.