28: The Birth

so sleepy.
caresses with gloves of plush velvet.
and so, let me slide…
I fly over brooding lands of Origin.
my mast head turns to visions magnetic.

pieces of The Art, half seen.
rumors of stories ancient.
obscured, they tantalize.
they collect within me until I must pause to consider each.

as a bird, I alight, upon a branch of rusting iron.
and there do i give hot birth to the leaden egg.
marbled in its weight, it burns,
swirling, showing on its shell a hint of bright beginnings.

i wait only for the Word,
but confounded am i by the echoes of witless conversations.
theatrical in their urgency.
demented and demonic.
the Great Lie.

there is the sound of one hand clapping.

the falsity bursts into crackling embers, then full dark.

There is a bang.

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