Another fine piece from (you) Simon.
Days now the whispers come and go
worm words generated from earth,
words of smoke, words of plants.
Turn sideways, become thin,
slip between one day and another,
at the year’s ending so little noise.
These stars – they are not now,
they have burned bright and died
a million, million years ago.
Therefore, I bow down and breath deep
the dead light of our ancestors,
gone and here and gone again.
Time is the fat of stars;
seeping in the long years,
other glorious mornings long gone,
distant golden mornings,
other silent rooms, other footsteps.
Nothing goes to waste
but slowly changes from what it was
woven threefold into other days.
The Magister holds starlight in his crystal spheres
to rot them down to raven’s wings
where seconds copulate birthing strange homunculi.
They know the answers only the dead know
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