Jung and
Yang
Archetypes, subterranean schemes,
walk city streets, ride subways as
commoners.
Shadow of Substance.
Ethereal siamese twin,
to the mundane, every day.
I long to tell you,
yearn so I loudly whisper,
but only if you really
listen.
I cannot say these things
twice.
Memories seep through,
acquire form.
Stand straight and true
as soldiers or Marines
swearing full allegiance
to any who will take that
load.
There are Gods foaming in
excrement,
begging relief in the balm of sacrament
potent and deadly.
Angels and Demons wage sacrosanct war;
dice from a grail
foresage trial or comfort.
Hungry Ghosts moan and wail.
Vampires and beasts
of desperation
seek shelter before
travails of daytime
break them.
Morning Star
winks salaciously.
In wild’s kingdom
all manner of creatures
thrive, entwine as before
the invasion.
Eagles soar.
Lions roar.
Whales sing.
Humans open
veiled third eye.
Divination
Tonight, the quiet sleep of
Heaven
blankets tenderly, affirms bliss as
promise.
Angel song, encoded blinks of highest
aspiration, leaps,
wafts kissed smiles, clear skies. Peace
shimmers.
Long, piteous, songs of buried shame,
spite and spittle flung like pennies;
flagrant frenzied relief upon unclean
graves...
Who makes this call? Who
answers?
Tonight crows, patient vultures stand at
crossed walls; they
have no leader.
Standing, too, are mute trumpeteers,
stranded infantry.
Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn,
silence deepens,
counterstroke to what is to
come.
“Strike!” Bold reds, bloodied swords brand
these walls
seen crumbling as light
extends.
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