The Ages

before the ages
inertness sat in the camber of
dense space, unformed and sterile,
owl-like eyes opened to newness—
an unwritten mathematic clothed
what moments ago was madness
and evil spoke through fashioned things.
we spoke too, read mysteries given
us by so-called kings, the tall and short ones,
who proclaimed the awesome magic
of the arts; angels watched but
called back nothing, not willing that
the web would break too soon.
the timekeepers,
the ones that travel,
competing with the bounds of innate law
went sprucely, good-manneredly,
having seen, as through the scrying glass,
Man marvelled at the instinct of a race so
gross in spirit—when man was still in
bone-and-incense-waving allegiance to
the other gods—
some star-crested druids of pleiades.
The atman waved and whispered finally,
became spirit only,
that is—lore,
now lonely angels strafe in silence
the once-madness,
time begat time, and the tide-diviners,
the ones making waves on the milky way,
spoke life into a new illusion—
The Gray.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio




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