Hieroglyph 11

Hieroglyph 11

We have stolen the darkness from the very core of light
And now the stars themselves are devoid of meaning
Here there is no life
And the hours are powerless to delimit the day.

What passion have you brought me to that I am passionless and alone in death's ambiguous embrace
There is breathing here
And blood in abundance beyond all imagination
But it is the breath of fate
And the blood of millions shed in the pursuit of our unformed yearnings.

You are outside all humanity
As I am beneath it
And the rest of our kind a poisonous drink offered to life's trusting thirst
The grand hope gathered in a single cup
And a toast to the serpent's hot revenge.

I will no longer participate in this event
As I have said before
And before that
Reiterating myself throughout lives beyond number
My conviction born of the morning and enigmatic by night
At last perceiving the secret of my continuity amidst this chaos
And waiting yet another season
With my work at hand and the blind joy of its execution.

You understand me too well
Or else I am a curiosity in the dusty chapter of your days
A passage that startles and as quickly forgotten
One of the many and one of the immemorable.

I have been with you these years we have only begun to count
And before that
Before we ordered the accumulation of the days
As I am with you still
The true mirror of your own fading reflection.

Previously Published

© John A. Youril