words

other worlds than this,
other prayers and solemn gestures than these,
other voices that speak stranger
and absolute, with a ferocity
like untamed lions devouring the night,
feeble and newborn,
one eye a pale crescent,
almost not there.

are there other fixtures
that cling to the vault of heaven
and mark progress in the scheme of things,
the marching and chanting,
the idols wound through bony fingers
with skin like blue paper
nearly betraying the blood,
almost not there.

are there other souls that burn
that border on abstract,
a lightness to them
as if one breath would carry them off
into the beyond,
consumed by the unknown
until they are but peripheral reflections
existing only in rumor and myth,
almost not there.

with each breath
the gravity of some forever axis
draws closer these worlds
to a convergence,
cosmic power struggles
of unforeseen consequence,
the aggregate of all thought,
the penance for reading god’s mind,
this purgatory slowly draws to a close
until it is almost not there at all.

S.C. Martinez