Becoming, boundaries arising where
God’s fingers bore on the infertile void,
and noise, too outrageous, too sad
to imitate; demonic retching undulating,
echoing, the sound of virgin darkness shuddering,
being imbued with solitude, understanding
emptiness and weeping, but there was more—
the cosmos opened, jet-black flesh, and
immediately was wounded with the spots,
the stripes and open sores of entropy,
time’s paradox, was blessed with terrible
and unimaginable improbability, that it was
here, that it survived the travail of notness,
and was at first an idea in Christ’s mind.
Its first expression was light, as that
was protest against the death of animal
dark; it was creation, begetment and revelation,
light allowed good to be borne on human
mediums, whereas the spirit’s aether was eternal,
love abiding and free-flowing between the Trinity;
we live now within our own speakful story but
silence was the original ultimate—in it
was unlimited order, plane upon plane, and
the great depth of the angelic attributes before
rebellion—sympathy, spiritual fervour,
gentility, fidelity, reverence for authority,
adoration of the eternal Godhead,
gospel-bearing and truth-speaking.
Winter’s white desolation impinges first
uncertainly then with a certain zeal, stars become
spreading tombs of worlds, the flares that are angel’s
anger: how they flicker, drone, sad songbirds, and as
immutable molecules await their peculiar judgement,
the waste of immeasurable space as one desert—
no wailing, nor speaking, nor dreaming anymore,
only emptiness and agentless destruction—we, God’s
men and women are elsewhere; the curtain closes
finally on silence itself, the audience absent—our histories
combine to deliver the last Satanic sermon: “I will, God
Behold, Christ praise me, see my self, depart not,
depthless heavens, thou art my mirror, my silent desire, my
very soul’s actuation, through you only, matter, I Am!”

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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