• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 06
Image by


some minds take pleasure in counterpoints
absently answering some deep call
they move in a hushed, ice-clear trance

and lucid, inescapable rhythms, low beneath
so to beseech them as full as for it
the inexorable growth
the signal to a sacred plea…

a little later when the sky is black
tattered pieces of a masquerade,
together with a voice, clear and loud
resound in a hymn to the Healer

obliquity is all the rage
and all the things that are red
and all the things that are vain
and all the ones that continue to contend with one’s ideas