The eternal sets roots within stirring sands,
Fraying the stars from their dark nurse;
All lay conjured by these penning hands,
Setting forth their sacred motions in verse.
How fates glimmering rains rushed over us,
And we endured of marble and heavy stone.
Yet vain as the mason errs, may he make thus:
A mark of the day our kin visage is shown.
Oh, found in the throb of every antique wing,
The glow and hollow in the bone and air—
Inscribed is the known day coming to sing
Of when we'd falter upon the bleeding snare,
After seeing these crests chide with fiery word,
And the firmaments rolling thorns play in ruling;
For that which dwelled, dwells still, and heard,
Of the fire and flux and time most grueling.
The source idles as strange in its weeping,
Yet the mouth, in ending, holds it in inborn wit,
And winds man entire, subtle and creeping,
To where his life, illumined, and faded, shall sit.
By this, be us ash, or the lit dew of the spheres,
The bird shall ever story from its great limb:
The two utter into one over the many years,
And from this, the Logos composes its hymn.
Hello! Those other poems I'm working on are taking up a good bit of my time and energy— so, I hope you all enjoy this one while those are being toiled away on. Thanks to everyone who has followed me on my other social platforms. Also, I can't respond to whoever follows or messages me on Tumblr at the moment. Something about their site isn't working properly.