We nest in a place we didn’t exist a long time ago
Inclining on stars that gave no
Ear to usher in the word we sprang forward into voids
That followed dark, bright, to respite.
We are seated on a perpetual eve that will never be seen
Nor heard of, or fabled by Essene
To wannabe revelers
Who listen to tales spun by Ages
Of lore and the arcane or the modern times with storied cast
Of characters spinning the details
Of every word skewed to make rambunctious tales.
There, the time so phantasmagorical
We eschewed tantalizing lyrics that unseat
The clarity of that which was to be
The much recalcitrant pieces to things on the breeze
Strewn about the yard of things to the bone.
The voice that spoke of no thing said we’d be undone
If only we became of the things which were
And remained not sequestered in and out of ether
Dark and mantic
Black spires like the crystals rapping on the ebb, like
Basking in adolescent atonement.
What freedom can we have from the demons roiling
When we ourselves were unreciprocated angels
The names of which we’ve already forgotten
For the breath of losing one life to take up another cot
To bed in the place of those robbed of replete
With no space of freedom to beseech.
In that hinter tethered there to be the repose
Of sketches that deceived the realities bleeding to metamorphose
Which became the meaning to the words through which this sine resonates
Maybe they’re heard to those mortal or obstinate
Avowing the word to which begins
If the eyes see and the ears hear, then so too the being relives
That thing, that time that never will be eon
In our clarity of such things lies true reflection.
by Kevin Allen
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