THE SUN WILL BE TURNED TO DARKNESS
AND THE MOON TO BLOOD BEFORE THE COMING
OF THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS DAY OF THE LORD.
AND THE MOON TO BLOOD BEFORE THE COMING
OF THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS DAY OF THE LORD.
(One begets the other.
And so on.)
The Son walks the earth in ignorance—innocent to all the things that have come before him; incurious and hungry for nothing, for the Son has lived a simple life as a simple, silver offering. The Son walks the earth, dumb and carelessly, straying further and further from the Mother as every day dies on the lips of another night.
By night, he watches the vacuum of the Father’s court, where he does his good works and makes light where nothing came first. By day, he wanders and eats and does nothing; passing by so many arrows from his god-quiver, knowing not that they are his kin, for none of them are the same silver cloth from which he and Mother are cut.
They are duller treasures; treasures hewn roughly and without the grace of his own nascency.
(The Father graces the Mother, begets the Son.
The Son is precious; he reads like a warning from a dead tradition.)
He hears her cry.
It is not like him to stop, but something in it stills him. He thinks (such a thought rises slowly to the surface, through the muck that is his heavy and prosaic psyche) that is is meant for him—caused by him. He hears the faint, sharp crackle of electricity. When the woman comes to him, she is barbed and cloaked; he cannot understand the way she looks at him.
(In his gut—that so-far unanxious and soothed place—he knows to fear her, if not for the barbs… for the way she looks at him.)
“I do?” his voice is high-pitched for his age, sharp and song-like.
He shifts, the hairs on his neck and chest and head stand on edge, responding to that voltaic mantle.
The Son is incurious, but deep inside, he is not truly stupid. Only uninspired.
He sees his Mother’s face; he sees the same skin, like Christmas stars.
“Who are you?”
And so on.)
The Son walks the earth in ignorance—innocent to all the things that have come before him; incurious and hungry for nothing, for the Son has lived a simple life as a simple, silver offering. The Son walks the earth, dumb and carelessly, straying further and further from the Mother as every day dies on the lips of another night.
By night, he watches the vacuum of the Father’s court, where he does his good works and makes light where nothing came first. By day, he wanders and eats and does nothing; passing by so many arrows from his god-quiver, knowing not that they are his kin, for none of them are the same silver cloth from which he and Mother are cut.
They are duller treasures; treasures hewn roughly and without the grace of his own nascency.
(The Father graces the Mother, begets the Son.
The Son is precious; he reads like a warning from a dead tradition.)
He hears her cry.
It is not like him to stop, but something in it stills him. He thinks (such a thought rises slowly to the surface, through the muck that is his heavy and prosaic psyche) that is is meant for him—caused by him. He hears the faint, sharp crackle of electricity. When the woman comes to him, she is barbed and cloaked; he cannot understand the way she looks at him.
(In his gut—that so-far unanxious and soothed place—he knows to fear her, if not for the barbs… for the way she looks at him.)
“I do?” his voice is high-pitched for his age, sharp and song-like.
He shifts, the hairs on his neck and chest and head stand on edge, responding to that voltaic mantle.
The Son is incurious, but deep inside, he is not truly stupid. Only uninspired.
He sees his Mother’s face; he sees the same skin, like Christmas stars.
“Who are you?”
@[Cordis]
Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17
your young men will see visions,
your old men will dream dreams.
- Acts 2:17