A voice seeking form: Muse, take mercy.
On a pilgrim sheltering in the refuge of the Logos.
Rain, rain into rivers, rivers into oceans.
Darkness on the face of the deep.
The journey from shore to shore is filled with tests.
Can you dine with the Enemy at your table?
Can you recognize him in your chair?
Can you listen at the midnight hour to the passage of souls
Without rising to join the festival of the dead?
Forms of love seeking vessels of spirit, of words, of soil.
The symphony of decay crescendos.
A hand on your shoulder.
You are here, at the appointed moment, the chosen place.
And could do no other.
Beneath blue canopy, those childhood oaks.
Your heart’s first apparition takes your hand.
The Enemy’s false splendor, exposed. Cheap trinkets.
Then trumpets. Garish robes disintegrating
In the sunlight of the end of the world.
The hand of the Enemy is cold.
The chalice of blood hot in your morning stomach.
On your lips, no memories, no hopes, no more recrimination.
No more shores.
Only light, warm light pouring over many waters.