There are blank faces under the leafy moon tonight,
Charred spoons lay scattered on the sandbanks
Whilst pumpkins, pale as sick vultures, tumble
Down to the river,
Making blubbering splashes as they hit the frothy currents.
What is this starlit place?
Wait! A figure glides along the waters.
It has wide marbles for eyes
That trickle lost light from their deepest vaults.
A moon spirit lost in the stygian night.
Etched in the Neolithic dawn,
The hexed belt of Orion;
‘Twas then but a symphony of Azure
To the tribal enchantress,
In ecstasy amongst her heterodox forces.
From the splintered lute
To the strains of Pachelbel,
That Dust, taught by the ark,
Doth climb the steep crags
From the abandoned pits
Out into the surreal daylight;
They blink in Ambiguity’s glare.
Is it but a mirage, their newly found glow?
Were they lured by some fall’n angel
To hasher nights?
To eons where the lofty spires
Do rise up o’er the billows
To howling zeniths.
Our crowns wrapped in frantic heights,
The visionaries conjure a new philosophy:
Those celestial Craftsmen
Become the ticking engines of One greater.
Chords of Scorpius woven into orbit
By Aristotle’s euphoric cries
Now I stare out through a window,
A plane sketches the open clouds,
In the calm, I believe it sounds:
A stir in the ether;
The burning of the Alexandrian vaults
In Rome, as Zeus takes up his bolt.