Byzantium
forged, fearless, fallowed;
In
the space of a single moment, forgotten,
Rotting
like the hand that gave it life.
If
you could only hear the silence
You
would see,
If
you could only close your eyes
You
might have been a part of it.
This
dream was not the product of sleep,
Not
the half-remembered
Excrement
of bullshit REMs.
Awake,
aware of all the motions,
A
mass of conscious flesh and blood,
Serving
only as the path on which
The
vision stakes its claim.
Roughly
splayed in sweeping strokes,
The
page becomes electric,
From
dust to dust an eager age
Peaks
out around the curtain,
Ready
to expand and fill the world;
The
moment passes unaware,
And
in the quiet, dies.
