.
Tunnels of crimson, splits the vision
as passion cruises through misty time,
the journey of the mage, passing through
the portals of seconds, the doors of millennia.
To encounter the turbulence, feel the butterflies
that threaten ill and ***** up minutes.
Chronology moves in pan-dimensions,
tempered to conformity, trapped in a clock.
The guardian of day and night, corrupted.
At journeys end, a travellers rest
parades upstanding to purvey its solace,
beckoning the beacon to sally forth.
Light space, occupied with vaccuum stars.
A macrocosm of possibilities, caves of wonder,
sends the horizon to eclipse blue moons.
In contrast, green symbols of pure abandon
triumph in ancient games of catching mist.
And the bed of Truth, a complete Lie fact.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Old Poem
.