The Lessons of Aker's Lions

By Janyce

© 2021 Janyce.  All rights reserved.


I.


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.


II.


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.


III.


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.


IV.


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.






#darksomemoon #darksomemoonpoems

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