Remembering Scarlet, The Reeds Against The Valley Of Thrones

We stood atop the night,
For Troy, haven of the walls;
And but to dust in moment falls,
And but to Fathers of the scribe;

We leaned within the throne,
For David, I was all Knowing then;
And but forgotten songs, amen,
And but forsworn, spare sad Saul;

We waited in the hall,
For Trent, a council of acrid faith;
And but the Devils double wraith,
And but the ivory towers beckon;

We sat among the reefs,
For Atlantus, never known;
And but to temples never sown,
And but to sunken hearts appeal;

We cast upon the Ice,
For Alexander, when I knew;
And but to burn the ancient pew,
And but to drink once final sip;

We waded in creation,
For Davinci, seed of life again;
And but to God, our souls begin,
And but to Plato,all sacred maths;

We watched our Revolutions,
For Keats I was, an Irish seer;
And but to death,a life more clear
And but to dare my visions;

We sang atop the thrones,
For Nefertiti, old love gone;
And yet to hold the Aten one,
And yet we ferried ancient sin;

We are among the Dead,
For Nile, afloat the worthy soul;
And but to heaven is the goal,
And but to unsure sands of gold;

We walk along the waters,
For Styx, to Roman ramparts old;
And but to grave all rulers cold,
And but to life, our I anulled;

We reside against the void,
We now the End of all employed;
And but to life,a blood moon all,
And but we sacred, hear the call;

I have been among my times,
For I have prayer, truth, and last;
And but to be, is as to past,
And but to breath, is God within.

I remember Gods Scarlet Temple,
The Keepers keep, the aura wife;
The Reeds Against the Valley Of Thrones,

And never resenting grace.



About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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