Easter is near. Parched lips murmer, and that shortest sentence is the lie of today.
Encaved, half asleep, they grasp at the shadows which play upon their walls, those 7 Christ like strangers,
And their hound who sits watch over their dreams, their rising, their supplication.
They depart now from their dwelling, and wander outward, into the peculiar code of our symbolic real world,
Their line of flight is merely from one closure to another, with this brief moment of exhibition, too brief to adjust to the sun,
Their eyes are blinded, and must be led by their animal, into the marketplace they go,
Where the people are surprised, it’s such a mystery — “Are they clowns or travelling players” — “Or desert mystics” — “No they are drunk!” — oh 7, thus embued with sadness of sight’s failure,
“What is this object?” — “What are these goods?” — “These are trinkets of love, like those you saw behind your eyes, as you slept.”
Easter is near. Water is being drawn upwards, to dress those wounds.
And our protagonists are a phantasm, themselves, 7 Holy ghosts,
Who walk above the right handed seas of dissolution,
Who look back at me, and sign to me, with left hand, soon enough I must accompany.
Empress, priestess, hermit and star invoked upon their beautiful forehead:
Limbs of the Father, lips of the Mother, faded Sons and Daughters, somnambulant, green, black, then finally at rest.