The dream-woven scape

effervesces, exhorting

you to make

an elegant escape,

to forsake

the uncompromising chaos

of the quotidian, 

to consecrate

a new meridian, 

cast cornerstones

into a game of dice, 

dance to the resonance

of a renaissance

that will suffer 

no ultimatum 

with the redolence 

of a temporal stratum...

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Watch as they don't

even dither before

they silver

the thirty pieces

they'll barter

for a sliver

of posterity, 

surrendering

their souls 

with such dexterity,

to be followed, 

of course, if caught, 

by some parody

of penitence, as they

take up residence

in the pantheon

of hypocrisy,

where all impulses

Pharisaic and prosaic

always reign, and

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The lyre never lies

as it laments

the passage of Time. 

The verdigris resignedly 

grins, vestige

of a vendetta

with the aforementioned

ruler of clocks, 

paradoxical sprinter

of marathons. 

The glass of hours knows

warring won't work, 

inveigling either;

coercing the ether

into structure, or

cowering in the corners

of existence: such

woul...

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The wind chimes of serendipity

lead to a trail of runes

that neither assert, nor prove

the answer of answers, or

the plan of a demiurge, 

but gently illumine

the mooring of a morning, as 

silence silvers the leaves, 

a synaesthesia of

infinitesimal extremes, 

a simple agonizing bliss...

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A demigod's ambivalence, 

neither here, nor there, 

enmeshed in both realms, 

a confused existence,

neither canonical, nor apocryphal,

semi-denounced by divinity,

yet given the opportunity

to hoodwink both mortals and gods;

so, at worst, a trickster on the prowl, 

but, at best, a descent of the Beyond, 

meant to liven up the Here and Now. 

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Eavesdropping on the future,

you even hazard a guess

of your own, before

the Pythia prophesies, 

but then you hear

her runaway sigh,

adding, thus, further

clues of foreboding

to a trail that

won't truly be trodden, 

for her utterances

might as well be 

bowdlerized, varnished

with a half-knowing

that gilds the cage 

you'll be forced 

to reside in, onc...

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The day's parlance

lacks all patience. 

So many seem

to need a sceptre 

on which to balance

all that incompetence. 

And the potion 

in the cauldron

aims to animate 

nobody but the zealot. 

But what if

the very premise

is flawed, crumbles

at the mere mention

of a wrathful god?

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Though unready for such leaps,

Forced to confront

All the crimson of the epoch,

And a lexicon that lives

Closer to comfort, yet

Further from the truth,

As we stand faithless

Before the fulcrum

That could let flourish

The coveted equilibrium, 

An un-becoming of the ego,

A veto to the vertigo

Caused by a nexus

Of the nefarious, angling

For the negation

Of...

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An earth scorched

in accordance with chaos

and a butterfly, 

with its nonchalance

of the passer-by, 

its audacity

to inflict an odyssey

on the uninitiated, 

who never anticipated

such Goliaths, forcing

them to rise

to the occasion of love, 

in the very face

of an unrelenting dark...

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The caprice of the chrysalis,

refusing metamorphosis, 

demanding that which

won't ever be granted:

an armistice with Time, 

its prime antagonist,

just so secrets

and spectres may

stay cocooned

in that elemental

phase for yet

another moment, 

or two...

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An alchemy of the numinous

and the maniacal, 

a pained enigma, 

a manacled charisma

in hiding, as

the volcanic may, 

indeed, harbour traces

of the shamanic, yet

the somersault between

extremes, tinged

with tragedy, will

rarely cease long

enough to let

flourish a peace

that presides, perhaps, 

inside the very hub

of a merciless wheel...

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