Chrysalis

Great seas are our souls; Deep and rippled and filled with things, And though wave-and-storm-thrown, Oft reflecting the idle eyes of glaciers.

Rarely is that sleeping torch, Those kindling twigs bound in earthy sinew, Kissed with life and blossomed Like a bud against a cosmic storm,

Though when set alight, aglow, Exchanges the tools made for coppered wheat For bronze of hardened shield And tempered steel to cut and forge.

That crest of the spirit High above misty lowlands often watches, Locked like an ammonite in ancient clay, Bound by ghostly roots, but

Tear aside wet, binding smoke, Feel fingers rend that surprisingly fragile shell, And ascend.

Shine like a birthing star Spreading an aura through the vast dark And grasp with trembling hands That which humanity through eons has sought;

That singular and intangible flame, Wound like a nautilus inside all flesh, Carrying the weight of planets Though smaller and simpler than we see;

The eternal hunger always measured, Hunted by wisemen and mapped in stone With chisels prone to crack And mallets that crumble before its unearthing;

That which carries the mystery And awe and power that nomads drank As they craned naked eyes To the depthless fathoms of stars above.

That is the beam that will light the water.

That is the basin that will clear the eyes.

That is the vista that will make knees falter, And fists grind dusty earth upon the precipice as mouths cry, "Now that I know of my blindness I can rest".