It’s not in smoking volcanoes
Nor in the boiling blue foams
rising from the oceans
Yet in these regions is where
you and I live, here we name
the secret streets and make
elegant histories to describe
this, our indecipherable colony
of love, here we live through
nights and days under the wide
open gaze of the sun and the
moon, looking for augurs in
in the skies, searching for the
dazzling eclipse, a white crack
the thundering gash of God His
holy hologram Eye all seeing
emerging through the hollow walls
of our planet, He offers us incense
and fire with which to light up the
the scattered syllables of the
lost codes written on these stones
which I carry, each in its own
upturned palm, as I seek him who
will read these invisible stones
which are my burden; yet

despite my patience, no fiery
winged Pentecost descends
around me, just these snatches
of darkness, as I put on my
lead mask, turning my face up
to the sky; innominate meteors
fall down, robbing me of
my vision that fails just as he
locks the doors behind us.


Why We Love to Fly In Our Dreams - Atlas Obscura

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s