Teufelskreis

Blinding rays, cure my flesh.
Let me dry into unfeeling meat;
becoming brittle, crumbling.
Molting, as space constrains.

A vision:
Lush gardens spinning,
poppy'd spokes, honey'd rivers.
Betwixt them waits a sylvan sage,
beaded hair twinkling, cosmic.
Each orb mirroring some eternity.

"Son of Man your summer
hath waned" voice, echoing deep
turning a lacquered key, opening a passage to
unseal that which was elementary.

The wheel spinning,
forming a whirlpool in the space
without voice. Unfettered, sinking through
the circling current, pushed through a bridge.
Glimpsed at the center of the hourglass, that which is parallel,
blooms.

Where shall the tide meet the sand?
Where shall the fire grasp the void?

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