The Tide, Part VII

The heart’s war was won—
we emerged from our states like
bats from caves, suspicious of
our selves—our hope of returning
to the basalt shores had been erased
by successive disappointments over
aeons, indeed we despaired of life
itself, thinking ourselves insects or
inanimate machines whose essence
would be lost to the smothering, empty
stillness of the wilderness we had been
afflicted by. Now our existence was
infused with the glittering silver
conspicuousness such as Satan’s
priests had known—we were enveloped
by entirely other an experience, though
perilous still—on changing tides, away
from drowning islands we met the depths
and the depths in turn expelled their
treasures, though we were famished for
revenge on the sightless, slithering things,
the orcs whose magic was in their starry
houses (they paused for sea-naps according
to their pleasure)—our earthly eyes were raped
insatiably on account of these wanton creatures’
fetish for crying and wailing—and not suffering
enough through material means, our souls
were fixed with hooks and yokes; we
marathoned through abstract ordeals
unfathomable, something now we recall with
vague distaste about expectations, about
ego, about an ongoing invasion of their
invisible parasitic forms into our minds, so
that who we were and once were was coloured
by their own vain and inverted beliefs about
the mortals, God’s special creatures—we were
alone in deciphering our torments and learning
the oppressor’s symbols from them, entirely
alone were it not for our captor angel’s input
here, there at times it seemed throughout eternity,
bespeaking the tender grace and mercy of a higher
being—God Adonai—whose light we dreamt of
under arctic, deathly and unendurable winds,
and whose shade we sometimes saw afar amidst
our hours of harvests under some hostile sun,
amidst our sad layman’s haruspicies, which told
us next to nothing and extended our stay in our
master’s extradimensional prison, our long fiery trial.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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