The sunlight has not yet begun it's death
as the gnostic agnostic
looks at the far off nuclear plant
with it's endless, massive columns of smoke
that billows up into the blue sky,
which is why his daughter calls it
the cloud factory,
finding beauty in horror.
The daydream believer
forgets where he is
and dies because of it.
Where are the prophets and poets?
Where are the revolutionaries and visionaries?
In this society
mystics are brainwashed.
The master of illusion says
this world is totally fugazi.
Evening has fallen like oblivion.
The lynx-eyed lycanthrope
dances in the moonlight wind
to the eerie, lilting music
of an Aeolian harp
while bat shadows swoop and soar
like quick, dark, furry birds of the night.
A murder of crows
passes like a dark cloud overhead,
gaunt wolves gnaw ravenously at the spirit.
Weary, the gnostic agnostic
stares into dead cornfields
knowing that sometimes
the solitary men of straw
have more heart and soul and life
than those of the flesh.
Forget the raging of placid discontent
and the dark taste of fantastic mortality,
for beyond the nameless, faceless gods and mundane lives
there lies something else
glimpsed only in cognizant moments of obscurity
that leaves an unbearable ache of ecstasy and despair
burning simultaneously, throbbing with a dull pain
that echoes outward from
the depths of the breast.
Angel jesters
in the lighthouse of moments
whisper wordlessly
songs of faith, hope, and love
that resound hauntingly in
infinite melancholy skies
where ghost white clouds drift
across black heavens.
Seeking wisdom from
the pure fresh light
of the dream academy,
the gnostic agnostic notices how
clouds look different at night
and realizes that there is much more
to understand.
Close my eyes now, and wonder,
if I fall asleep
in this world,
am I waking
in another?
