~ an incantation of chaos x creation x cultivation
Beckon your heart to its very brink
What do you find?
At the utmost, the character stuff of legends yore
On the extremity, a final detail of personal lore
In the heart of Time, a tyrannical chaos anticipating its tame
Stridently admonishing from a vantage we cannot perceive
And He listens.
And does not act
His aura actualizes
In the spectral threads of materia
His emanation permeates our every moment
Even while dissipating into uncaptured yesters
Upon the peak of every brink,
Transcendent energy — His overflow — goes through us
We may grasp at it in the urge of demi
In an aasimarian word
Or a daemonic turn
Pieces of All coursing through our vains and veinities
Grasped but not held for long
Losing the track to discord and disturbance that become less anomalous every day,
We try to find our voice once more
What an angelic tool,
May we use it for more than just babbling?
A Man sings when he is gleeful
He sings when he is sad
A song spirals through us primeval
Notes, tones, and tunes, the holy triad
Our hands picking up wood and brass and ivory
We begin to play, too
Stalling in roteness, unto freeing instinct
Our amplifying accompaniments soon shine
Maddening duality strikes at us
In the performance,
What to say?
And how to say it?
In the making of music,
inside of your passionate communicae,
Why stop with the craft of one soul?
Why not deign to culminate them All?
With exuberant presence superseding silent absence,
The audience to your song sings on
Unto themselves, unto All
Unto to the very edge of this existence
They sing still! even while they crawl!
In the disquietude of Original Sin’s oblivion,
Amidst the ruins of Babel,
On the scales and through the orchestrations,
Shattered tendrils of solidarity begin to mend
Greater than words,
Artful melody springs
Steps bend to dance
Information spirals into incantation
All of it comes together in a burning-soul symphony of cultivating elemental ardor capturing every One of humanity no matter to culture, creed, or canon
More than a song, a spell
True magic reflects in every irony;
As the most pained and articulate cry of that immortal flow,
The spellsong is simply the voice of God
He: Faceless and fearless; neutral and forgetful
We: the mortal dread-singer, beyond good and evil, undying to our every sin until the last breath
Resounding through the quiescence of the cosmos,
In spite of every imperfection,
In defiance of the all-encompassing disunity of our time,
The spellsong is heard!
Our evanescent wizardry manifests in the usage of His surfeit to triumph over Him. ~