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 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,
now lonely angels strafe in silence
time begat time, and the tide-diviners,
the ones making waves on the milky way,
spoke life into a new illusion—
Thanks for checking out my poem.
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