Thrown from his crystal precipice I awoke
bereft of my senses blown away by the wind
dispassionate cries torn from inside me
an essence taken leave
once permeating now lost
again; can it really be
disposed of so neatly, without sin
or mayhem? Unknown manna, rough diamond found
in darkness (he) fed upon the nettles growing
from my chin skin deep bathing beauty mountain
god (I was) my father, myself a son, an old son
without father can a son who knows not
his father ever leave him? Nettles, green
soup, everlasting nourishment....
Accomplices of thought
Commanders of the continuum
Saviours of the Abyss overlooking the sky
those of Atlantea, surrogate mountaineers,
priests of ageless sublime
paths meeting each other throughout time.
(c)2010 Barry Ira Geller ~ June 21, 1984
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