Over The Wasteland

The imperishable midnights all overlapped and rolled
into One Midnight we called, "Black Afghan of the Lost Prophet,"
the last thing we found solace in before the curtain was drawn,
and before the birds started their melodious tune about the
triumph of the sun.

We remembered the folds in the great blanket, regaled
in the ways in which the fabric of the twilit world felt like a warm
emptiness, clutched at archipelagos of an encroaching dream, dipped
our hands into valleys where the desolate heart rang out like a cloaked bell.
We remembered the hidden name that connected all seasons.
We purposefully forgot about time, reason, and the pleasures
and vicissitudes of the day. It was all apart of our searching,
felicitous drifting, play.

Now the sun has taken our crepuscular world from out of our
hands and is now feeding it to the dogs of day. Pretty soon the
sun will plunder our lands with scornful heat rays, and our rivers
will dry as a result of the sweltering vision of the god inside the
sun, some deformed Apollo who sits on a throne of malaise.
And pretty soon our lands will vanish like vaporous dreams,
and pretty soon the world shall shrink to the size of a fig, and
pretty soon the nocturnal door shall close. Then the sun will
only have a wasteland to study up there in the center of the
pantheon of heaven, and we will only have ashes and tears.
Both sides will lose.