Nabatean Salve: 19xx
The arid ruins reflected dawn like they manifested Heaven's balm,
lubricating perception.
Desolate but any angered spirit would instantly be rendered calm.
Upon approach his Mind would dance, his Muse exclaimed...
Forever lost are these ruined plains; as time advanced
the Nabateans witnessed legends brought to bear on Market Square
the rabble approached the Street Priest with awkward stares.
He'd scream "Peace! as prophesied since the Dawn of Time!"
Focused as if called by God though most agreed he'd lost his mind.
The truth is, through meditation he saw designs of ancient crypts,
and on an obelisk's spine displayed an escapist's script
with golden-glyphed messages comprising a salvation Myth.
His proud nation split thanks to religious rifts and civil war.
And he knew these visions writ of a simpler fix than glinting swords
slicing hordes of passionate zealots and revolutionaries.
Lies resounded confounding unconnected ideologies;
Until finally someone listened that wasn't a filthy pocket thief.
"The war's direction rarely seems to sway based on the executions."
Wary, the non-thief looked on, a "rebel" patch on his leather tunic:
"The Mages sent me to you, you claim to have been revealed an answer,
we are a smaller rebel order, the revolution feels in danger
for the last time we listened to a prophecy we were killed in anger."
The priest recoiled, never having been confronted by authentic doubt before.
He lived within his own truth, strife never having been accounted for.
So he set the rebel to task, to seek these mythic ruins.
To the Nabatean Petra. Assuming this isn't just some twit's delusion.
A single etching by an ancient sage to upset entire institutions?
But the non-thief believed in peace and swore he would live to prove it.
Within the Priest's chambers, a lazy shadow reflected stasis...
He sat lotus-like, controlled, precise in effortless meditation.
Visions flooded his cortex, at first numbers in an extended matrix
spilled out onto a canvas painting of a list of ten equations:
The first was a function of Time as it bends with space,
the last was an algorithm explaining genetic language.
Between were arguments for the existence of persistent life,
the priest: the vehicle for the computing system within his mind.
These combined created an image of the Mage's rebel,
a silhouette shifting from ether to flesh engraved in metal.
No aesthetic order, but the program seemed to sketch a border
within which man could act without fear of the gaze of devils.
A shadow on a cavern wall became blighted by the ridicule
of humanness, which only captures what is timely and predictable.
The priest imagined the non-thief deceased on the ruin halls,
then was struck out of his trance by rebel guards screaming "Move along!"
Truth is lost in the channels of sublimity,
"The river downward" could merely be the mind stuck in the annals of infinity.
The arid ruins reflected dawn like they manifested Heaven's balm,
lubricating perception.
Desolate but any angered spirit would instantly be rendered calm.
Upon approach his Mind would dance, his Muse exclaimed...
Forever lost are these ruined plains; as time advanced
the Nabateans witnessed legends brought to bear on Market Square
the rabble approached the Street Priest with awkward stares.
He'd scream "Peace! as prophesied since the Dawn of Time!"
Focused as if called by God though most agreed he'd lost his mind.
The truth is, through meditation he saw designs of ancient crypts,
and on an obelisk's spine displayed an escapist's script
with golden-glyphed messages comprising a salvation Myth.
His proud nation split thanks to religious rifts and civil war.
And he knew these visions writ of a simpler fix than glinting swords
slicing hordes of passionate zealots and revolutionaries.
Lies resounded confounding unconnected ideologies;
Until finally someone listened that wasn't a filthy pocket thief.
"The war's direction rarely seems to sway based on the executions."
Wary, the non-thief looked on, a "rebel" patch on his leather tunic:
"The Mages sent me to you, you claim to have been revealed an answer,
we are a smaller rebel order, the revolution feels in danger
for the last time we listened to a prophecy we were killed in anger."
The priest recoiled, never having been confronted by authentic doubt before.
He lived within his own truth, strife never having been accounted for.
So he set the rebel to task, to seek these mythic ruins.
To the Nabatean Petra. Assuming this isn't just some twit's delusion.
A single etching by an ancient sage to upset entire institutions?
But the non-thief believed in peace and swore he would live to prove it.
Within the Priest's chambers, a lazy shadow reflected stasis...
He sat lotus-like, controlled, precise in effortless meditation.
Visions flooded his cortex, at first numbers in an extended matrix
spilled out onto a canvas painting of a list of ten equations:
The first was a function of Time as it bends with space,
the last was an algorithm explaining genetic language.
Between were arguments for the existence of persistent life,
the priest: the vehicle for the computing system within his mind.
These combined created an image of the Mage's rebel,
a silhouette shifting from ether to flesh engraved in metal.
No aesthetic order, but the program seemed to sketch a border
within which man could act without fear of the gaze of devils.
A shadow on a cavern wall became blighted by the ridicule
of humanness, which only captures what is timely and predictable.
The priest imagined the non-thief deceased on the ruin halls,
then was struck out of his trance by rebel guards screaming "Move along!"
Truth is lost in the channels of sublimity,
"The river downward" could merely be the mind stuck in the annals of infinity.
No comments:
Post a Comment