The Ages, Part III

white foam crashed
stone on rock
was the weft that strongly
dressed a flat land with
sandstone cathedrals,
substrate oceans—
for ages the blind haunts
of insects only, but above,
the war that made us strong
and brutal sent us seeking,
like our masters, the
the small dark recesses of
the prehistoric playing field—
we were domestic, and
framed our lives now by the hours
in which the shadow strove
beyond the threshold of our
outside, great rock monuments
were erected by the stardwellers
in apelike imitation of our
we watched, not knowing
in what future our outstretching
arms would find purchase—
and having dim concept of
aspiration in itself,
hoping only to brave each
bloody day and night,
that filled with screams and
atrocities caused us separation
from our very selves,
and benighted, ill-equipped
we instead took flight into
the many aethers intersecting
worlds—aided by our medicines
we broke into the bright rooms
of symbols, receiving in our arms
what could be trundled back of
eternity—the arts, deep philosophies,

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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