From the card of victory to that of prayer, the throne somehow, incorporeal rendered human experience
Illuminated, vanquished by love’s rising and setting,
ὁμοούσιος, forethought emanation, crosses the Caesar’s clerical cares, his Babylon bases are broken,
And how his history is a humour, his soul a shameful shadow, a tattoo terrific and terrible,
Rendered now effortlessly edified, by Your sweet silence, the Divine vacuum of truth to void such vocalized vehemence,
And as androids, we are but actions on autopilot, departing now, taking off, soaring now into the azure aether, above clouds, above that old city,
Which veers into vagary, dreaming of thrones, and kings and queens.
And in angelic arrival of his art, yes, path of pilgrimage west to east, north to south,
ὁμοιούσιος care, the kindness kisses, the cosmos calms
This illusion of time, fading our symbols into the truth behind it all:
The supernal verses, all at once, and all is even.
Remembrance, actions now stilled, passion refined to peace, tautology tames, and I, what’s left of me … what is left of me? God only knows.