A prophet entering the year of prophecies

A prophet entering the year of prophecies
Degree of my natal Hekate --
a liminal year for the dweller
on the threshold.
The search for clarity,
expanding borders, integral
To see, to feel, to undulate
through, to discover, uncover, swim
in the glory of original grace
To see, to feel, to breathe in
all luxury of exquisite ether, to hold,
transmit as cellular energy
to paint upon translucent canvas
apocryphal etchings, private dreams
Sagacity planted in potent fertility
visions, cantations
The tantalizing tinsel of starlight;
the subtle scent of conflagrated pain;
the feather touch of eternity.
Let me fall into velvet voice, enchanting form,
move with the rhythm;
caressed within word and worlds'
Cozy by my translucent, permeable door
wise old fire djinn awhirl in sumptuous fantasies
Grab this wondrous globe of fortune,
shake for your life, your destiny.
Snow descends, alive within desire's fortress.
Light, free, prism-pure
colours collide, sparkle, glow, pleasuring eyes
Interceding between Heaven and Earth
Above and Below
Chilled, burned, abducted by Gods, Demons,
potent dreams.
What creature, fearfully aware of mortality,
prays to be the prey of fate --
prays for salvation from the other side,
acceding to forces beyond control
of flesh and mind?
What kind of sniveling, conniving coward
bends the law, the sacred trust,
covenant with all that is holy?
Cast into a class that laughs at rules,
what holds grimy chaos at bay?
(Fools at least are pure, are gay and
without malice.)
Cunning schemes are not forbidden honour,
if they carry that depth, that weight,
that integrated code.
How much is sold?  How much kept
for seed and nourishment?
This is why we invented numbers --
to have some objective measurement.
So good we become at spinning stories,
descending backward from our source,
so easy to proclaim:  "Of course,
everyone knows,
obstruction is the obvious choice."
Because our goal is not solvency,
but Salvation; not solving common sums,
but absolution from our sins --
merry though they may be.
If Greybeard in some quantum sky,
hallowed by Name,
presiding o'er rewards: grace of bliss,
cries in flames of perdition --
why would such a power be amused,
indulgent Grandfather bouncing willing
child on some ectoplasmic knee,
promising eternity if baby will but
keep still?
Wouldn't such a benevolent progenitor
expect more joyfully creative heirs, better stories
for the choices given?
Ivy dense, tangly
insulation encircling
mortared brick, aged,
for days that never can return
Collar up against the wind and dark
Rising smoke creates warmth illusion
Wrapped in sanity's delusion,
fog's memory of mist, imagined tide.
Seated here, salt-etched wall
alone between vast sand and
murmuring waves.
No one sings.
The notes, the voices
Lost in extreme streaming
radiant stars emit molten fire
Resplendent figures morph through incandescence
When the smoke of apocalypse clears
what consciousness remains
will lack or benefit based upon
perceptions created now. 

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