Where for is the good dark?
The pitch that spilt us from the womb and split us twain.
Rich deep that churned the marc, rose the arch, piled
Forth and thundered into orb of earth, sky, and rain;
All the same, the night is bright. Blistering is the ebon
Crown that does swallow every ray, every dawn into
Time, swelling Saturn so divine there isn’t a ghost, a shade,
That hasn’t crept up to the stars and wept, slept inside
Orion’s armpit, the Swan’s raven wing, the Lyre’s string;
Can’t we again bathe clean? and bring the black beak
Down upon us and be devoured into sleep, into the halls
Of Morpheus, Nyx; why haven’t we bowed low and cried,
Crowed, for the bitter taste of midnight’s beam…? I haven’t
Remembered my soul in an aeon, an age; how could we have
Forgotten, denied, that all of us are Holy Fire, are Free…?