FOR NAMJOON

DUST

 

Thoughts loop and twine under a Bell of blue and gold,

chiming hymns to the God of your Perception,

ringing and clinging to Day’s columns and architraves,

to flamant ladders they would ascend

in search of dreams or redemption.

“Clock hands wander withershins,

bereft of rhythm and reason like disjointed bones

or pulseless veins flailing in regnant winds of decay;

Time has gone astray, it scores my roots,

severs my branches, carving an ancient pain

upon the lonely page of my heartwood.”

 

Your eyes trace the soft bend of rays around the eaves

to the coral bower of the flaming Cosmic Jewel,

drawn by some strange alchemy to contemplate me,

an infinitesimal in the limitless plenum of Creation.

Your path unfolds between an atom and a star,

yet you ponder a speck, a particle,

an illusion the sages avow your senses shape.

I am not Language or Music or the night-darkened,

star-lightened idyll of the seeker’s spirit;

I am no rain-summoner nor oak-hallower whose craft

conduces to inscendence and involution.

 

Yet I know myself as spaciousness, as indefinableness

tethered to Earth and matter of Seven Spheres;

the quietism that steers your highest art

paves my bestowed way,

for I seek to pilgrimage through, not to.

Why dread the fall and loathe the falling?

Why fragment to pieces when the Elements impel you

to inward rising, when Presence empowers you

to break open the gibbous moment

and imbibe the seeds of its panacea?

Why inscribe your journey as unceasing stichomancy

toward your worth?

 

Let Life live through you as an uprush into your truths.

Return to your inmost Flame,

to the space that wonders not what you have,

but purposes what has you,

for it witnessed the Sleight of the eternal Hand before

the Veil made your eye.

Time revels in your blossoming; you are a bloom of light

that bears an immenser Story,

yet we are alike past and future crystallised

in an eternal present; we shall somewhen cease to exist

and still persist, still be.

 

Would you be frightened or fear-brightened,

heed the foundry of your mind or the mill of your soul?

Together, we shall blaze as suns and dim as mysteries,

young Prophet of the Clouds,

chanting charms of making and breaking,

our arcs faced with the rippling silk of varying skies.

 

© 2021 Lilium Candidum

Lily’s Verse

Image: twitter.com