© 2021 Janyce. All rights reserved.
Time awoke to that abyss called Nothing.
“This is well,” said he,
Then he rose, shook, and prepared for his task-
An eternal obelisk of hours,
Momentous of those moments yet unclaimed
Forever beyond reach of god and man.
Pillars recede to what then is the past,
uncharted scores of eons drone silent
down halls of smoke, mist, and distorted glass.
Time’s sibling and consort, the blind wraith, Fate
Holds court in a garden of fire and ash.
In one hand, her lyre of chimeric bone
Thread strings of sinews crimson, green and gold
Which tones for all whom suffer just to live.
Diligent and undiscerning are these
Unmoved by torment, weeping, or prayer,
Or sacred fragrances which fill the air,
Choice slabs of fat from a favorite beast-
Entreating acts for gods but not these beings.
Fate, a mystery, gifts one life to seize
To wrest and conquer as Her will decree.
But to those who refuse to chart their stars-
Who keep the staff and disdain the sword,
Regarding safety and comfort of hearth,
The meek shall inherit the harvest yet
Foregoes the throne. Remember-Chance is not
A child of Fate, never happening to
Ones who wait to be asked to take their place
In the Heroes’ Hall or Life’s grand table.
An absence of light is not a meaning
Of imperfection, but the genesis,
Ideal to be. Nor is it ignorance,
Blind, spuking truths corroded, corrupt, bound
Only to scepter and snake. For wisdom,
Veiled sacred not cloistered, awaits your turn
At experience. Hollow shadows mark
the warm womb of the world inviting you,
accepting you back to that familiar
embrace of grace unmeasured, sins erased.
Aloft, in discard hewn by Time strode She
Birthed from those first fires of destiny, a
Prologue captured in the awe of silence-
She is Death, that beautiful, terror of
Night without end. Isolated madness
Long suffered, succor thoughts not challenged, but
Menaced to despair. Arms outstretched high,
Fingers affix teardrops, silent stories
To a jet sky. Eyes strange to each other-Cast like cruel die. Molten ring of amber,
A blaze of fury, brutish heat called forth day.
Hot streams of blood ran forth, a wound transfused
To a womb. Rending Her shroud a wasteland,
“Bear to bear” the simple command to live,
Brought forth honey, milk, and fruit from the land.
Yawning, yawning, yawning a broken maw,
Divergent chains of ragged mountainscapes,
Fossilized ribbons admonished by wind
and sun. At last is the cold crystal sphere
whose soundless coo calls forth the rise
of tides, and sanguine, sacred knots unravel
performing a cycle of miracles.
Her finger slips into the last cavern
Tipping primal rain pooling in corners
Of empty earth. From destruction there too
Is birth and thus all being well she turns,
Stray winds a final act setting a world
Fragile but determined in its motion.
For thus was the way the world was made-not
The astral cleft sundering a lovers’
Bower, a double-headed king’s command
For order over Chaos, dethroning
A Father, Forsaking a Son. We dream the same
Dream in different colors, splendid though;
An array of one, no soliloquy
But divergent hymns. Whimper or bang, know
You a difference? There is no beginning
Without end-certain is the infinite.