There is a too much-muchness
Like a slow burning not-enoughness
Dreams of gates that invite but air
Of fires that end the world.
Of the hollow space when we are
DOP P L E R S H I F T E D O N E S .
There’s a shaft of air-night; air-light
Dusty & golden hanging babylon bronze
Burnished brass braziers burning coalfire low
Striking wearied (hearts) in some haemaglobic photosynthesis
Not of biology, but of some higher order.
Not of cultish temples
Nor of shell-hardened pagodas
Covered in runes of tongues that never were.
Or perhaps yet to be.
Perhaps a spirit, mayhaps a GOD
would you say it, then?
No, not He-Of-Abundance; The Mountain King
Alas; not she-of-the-times, voice high & true.
Not he, Player of Cups nor The Poet Purple.
The wrong shape for The Raven Cometh
Alone, thus not The Hero Mystic, bereft of companion
Too warm for The Blade of the Highstar
Too small for the Crowned Oak and Gum
A NEW ONE THEN! A GOD CHILD
Promised a universe in the heaven-womb
But birthed in wrack&ruin
His aspect the future; his strides collosal choice;
He leaves behind Four Horsemen; and evermore they
give chase
his stride generations wide
And perhaps he may yet LEAP!
If his imagination can encompass the thought.