In the Temples of the Elders

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White strobe

beams descending;

mites of dust – millions –

spiral down, forever falling.

A head bent forward, bright eyes

peruse a wall of text.

Artefacts surround,

wood, bronze, iron;

examined, gazed upon, a story

of evolution grasped and clung to.


Mirrored walls and stone faces

stare blind at this visitor,

just another intruder.


The encoded scriptures

in heaped sheets of

paper, thin as Bible leaf,

give little away;

painting one message;

that which locks all light,

draws a sunset to its close;

no truth to be found

in yesterday’s

caged, fragmented dark.


◄ Hydra

Descent ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 24th May 2014 16:21

Good poem - but are you sure of your conclusion?

The metaphor 'thin as Bible leaf' is very good. I knew exactly what you meant,even though disagreeing that all Bibles are thin-leafed. These days most are.

Consider: 'dust mites - millions' because it echoes the four-beat line prededing it, and doesn't trip over 'of' which, IMO, is often a 'trap' word in poetry. Just a thought.

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