Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,
crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.
Green lanthorns and ghost night
breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.
And in this Yuletide of watchful note,
curious feet walk in between
with itch, with love,
for the longing idyllic horror
of secrets most immemorial
and brilliant hope.
The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.
Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.
Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.