Beginning to End
Infallible mockers, handsome riders:
Their purpose, usurp, claim peace as their own.
Build heads where they watch
the others below,
Who glare up, mirror, mirror...the sentence made clear,
Certain vain concentrations,
Bound back,
Disappear.
The alchemist studied the mixture he had let simmer beside the window of his lonely tower in Aldernon, the Holy City, center of King Alder's domain. A scent of sulfur fused with lead. A mystical substance he sought, mysteries of lost ages. For seven days he watched the flask sit over the low flame--not too weak nor strong--perfect for his aim, the goal of his opus.
Gold. The Father's majesty made manifest by the determined mind, morphing this massive chaos of an earth into the sign longed for by every soul. The cross made whole.
He sat and watched the muddy liquid through the glass. Nothing. Not a stir. every imperfection still apparent, ununified, unknown. He put it down and stared out the window.
A bird flew by, startling him, and his hand hit the flask. It fell with a crash.
Designs, disfunctions, difference differed,
Discontinuity discorporate,
Dust from our deaths...
All that matters is friction,
A moment transfered
Beyond symbolization,
Words shatter words.