TempleWalk, saunter, crawl, gallop For what felt for hours long On a path of tent’cle Functionality bent To those bars Liszt had wrote And whose paths Escher would Ink in for viewing mass Until at a day’s drudge I arrived to floating Temple, Synagogue, Mosque Of cubes stacked snowy beige Of dungeon doors, iron bars Of rooms breaking logic And glyphs etched among walls That relate thousands like: ᄌ Ⰽ K ʞ Ж た Just to keep going for Miles past eye’s range they go Never revealing me Sagas, poems, stories, epics. PlatformI fell into the woods From the canopy greens, cosmo tear, I Satan, Saw three beasts of furry, Manly composition Gilgameshic heights & Horns, claws, teeth with gentle Faces of beautiful Youth we all were once like Lifted me for lands far Only they let me down On platform alone, snow I saw myself in did Glide ever smooth, abyss Beneath my void stage where Sky wrapped globular shape Leaving to a fall all. ThatGrendels and Surtrs run Along the glyph’ed walls While I wandered lonely As a cloud that held this Temple high above void; How better to observe That chasm-field of sky Than a rotunda large Watched by boulders screaming In tongues Babel bellowed Æ̈ jȕ ũ ḣḗ ṏṩ ẍḯ Syllables empty out Leave meaning to themselves Torture me with sounds until I hear nothing except Pitch increasing to squeals Metal or particles Ionized rip into And I suffer to hear Frozen with shock as I Gazed down that open void. Opening; I flew in. Down rabbit hole down Quiet came on To my cold Body Gone. Then, As I Awoke to Colors, shapes, sky Void reopen and Before me was that Kusamit covered God. Infinite gasket skin Hand reached forth with gentwarmth With eyes brimming brightness However yet hollow As I could see through them The temple, the platform the snowclouds, the cuboids, the grendels, the surtrs and I could see myself walking the halls up that everrising stairpath; I collapse under weight – Majuscule gravity – Roll on back, look downward Into the distant fog Nothing is behind me For I don’t think there is But staring into naught I saw myself seeing Me looking into eyes Of that That, that God That. T. E. Secor is a poet, writer, and town employee from Stanfordville, NY, who operates a small online blog/journal, Eagleson & Secor Journal, to share events and writing from locals. He has written much and is currently composing a collection of poetry to be published.
1 Comment
Paul Lastovica
11/16/2021 08:18:03 pm
'That' is a delight of flow; I typically read poems silently to myself, yet here I am speaking it as I go along it's flow.
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