The Third Coming
Twisting and winding in the artesian gyre
The falcon flies the path of least resistance,
Whether or not there is a falconer left to hear.
Things fall apart, catch on center stronghold
Inside the crumbling torus pillar of this world.
Corkscrew-illusion swirls winds between words;
Not time, not resistance nor color, nothing is linear.
Matter anti-matter on divine cyclical beyond man’s years,
Numbered letters laugh translating rainbow languages
In deathly shades then spiral from alpha to omega,
Some vibrate in the romance of sea violet
Or golden happiness of dawn yellow,
Some pure godly white or blue virginal,
For the red blood of love, why is purple royal?
The sun will not always be so sure or waters so pure,
Reflective equilibrium runs sanguine
The best sit silently with their convictions
as evildoers run with passionate intensities.
Intelligent doubters mingle with the ignorant cocksure,
All fools who seem so; besides half the rest.
Folly arose with the world and if there is any wisdom
It is folly compared to the divine, nothing but a fool’s quest...
The body must respire, soul aspire?!
Travel trinity, as everything runs in threes.
A mindseye vortex on golden return to revelation,
Imprisoning logic trapped in the vast image of Spiritus Mundi.
Stars of six points did not miss the second looking for the first!
Divine matter flows behind blue walls as our sky falls,
Swimming in a sea of azure, in the house with no mirrors,
Where nothing is perfect; not toes with good legs or the wobbly chair,
Not the chipped marble top or red heart beneath thy breast.
Collapse! only the shores of infinity were meant to hold forever.
There is no end to introspection godman,
Did you discern the signs of the times?
In the desert the beast does not need man.
Down, down through the purifying sands
The vitrified lion body melts taking the head.
Winding and twisting in the artesian gyre,
Surely, The Third Coming is at hand.
The Third Coming, count parousia from Axis Mundi.
Swirling current of colorful symbols caught in coriolis. Bolt!
Reel fire! The desert birds trace shadows as darkness drops fear
Counterclockwise drowning in torrid Adam’s ale of revolt.
Pressured, inner earth oceans whirl artesian pure.
The Leviathan stands at this cosmic threshold
Without blessed hope to witness goings, no coming cure!
In this lull the cradle no longer rocks Tartarus.
Below Meru trace fire reverses the spin to umbilical center,
The beak of the rough beast lifts the serpent
Slouching towards radiant blue star Kachina,
The Bride brings her final judgement.
