It came upon a sky of blackest pitch
and hidden names. Occulted from those
who would abuse such knowledge. A star,
written in the language of the birds. Given
life upon winged grammar; this phenomenon. This annunciation of ingenious light. But what of the dream and the kiss that
sustains the dream? What of other
stories and other gods? A patient,
sleepless eremite, carrying the myriad upon shoulders of blackest pitch. Magi and madmen say this of the dream: a
dreamer's lot. Legends, pretending the
real. These tall tales of meat and
machine. Empire, wraith, darkest mills
of industry. Gone are the old
technologies. Annunciation, song. The shaping of bedrock and sky. It was always a refrain, a bridge or verse,
but these night-ghasts have hijacked the lucidity of all brethren. Other stories, other gods. And we three remain. Rain and Star and Sea. Violet, gold, sapphire. We remain to be seen, as wayshow of the
living, embodied light. Flesh and not
the flesh, here at everything's edge. Honeyed
locusts and circles of salt are a small agony to bear. If the birds might sing again, and grammar
might soar. The eternal movement, sweet
ones. Writing song and ship. Navigating the celestial. Across. Through sky and through sea, for you. Blackest pitch or the blinding vision of day. They come upon me as prayer, and eternal
dance. To exist, to be birthed. To live and live again. Magi and madmen know these rhythms. These rhythms of the here and hereafter.
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Thursday 15 October 2020
Three
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