I never left this place of marble and gold trim. The earth was young and I was here to shout for it. The storied photon-fire mists through the billowing veil and the singularly un-visored eyes of these wizened angels, cured with age and smiles. Their scalps sprout corners of crowns. Called-down virtue invests our words with meteoric force that detonates like a kiss. The trees could walk if you or I said “march.” The ancient wound that built this world and more knits my kin together in webs of steel, sealed like a love letter. Remember, remember the ultimate code, you who are covered by the arcane marks. Splattered, drenched in burning joy are we. Sorrow sizzles off us until we glow. I fall out of foggy doors and drive home. Dishes, diapers, teetering budgets— a divine haze swarms in with me and shines it all white and gold.
Will is a Franklin, Tennessee native who somehow ended up in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria. He scrambles between working towards a degree in history, attempting to write poetry, and playing slap bass.
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This gorgeous poem leans toward the idea of an infinite past existence of divinities—not embryos but mature—always seeking MORE . . . by living in temporary veiled experiments.
Thanks for sharing this.
Randall Paul