I can say with assurance that he is real:
Corpse-like in composure, strategically defying
The oscillating current of overarching Mind,
But alive as an ever-evasive spirit
Spiraling frantically toward tranquil recession.
His breath can be perceived -
With eyes agape, nose prostrate -
As a tunnel through which
The sands of centuries of collapse
Flow...
And proceed to assume sacred burial
To make way for the procreative successor
Lays down his axe;
His work he has completed.
What next but to surrender
To the undulating body of the Serpent Queen
Who feels her way in grave solemnity
Out of your tautened throat -
Whose peculiar gyrations challenge
The amaranthine disguise
Like a peacock feather with voidish eyes.
I can say accurately -
(Though what is accuracy but
Another qualitative death?) -
That a man like that means no harm.
One can feel the warmth in his gentle brown eyes,
Seeping like frenzied abbesses from burning cloisters
To inhabit the furthest reaches
Of one's furthest extensions,
To caress first the parched land of barren intent
And then to plunge with virulent mass
Into the stomachs of heroes.
He does not scuttle or turn to ugly dust
Like concrete underneath the gaze of dusk
Reminiscing on its own lost dreams;
Nor does he utter just one peripheral word
Filled with malintent or carnal misgiving.
What a divine breath -
Like pure white snow or a stone rose -
Unfolding to accept troubled offspring
Defiled from without
He forgives.
Corpse-like in composure, strategically defying
The oscillating current of overarching Mind,
But alive as an ever-evasive spirit
Spiraling frantically toward tranquil recession.
His breath can be perceived -
With eyes agape, nose prostrate -
As a tunnel through which
The sands of centuries of collapse
Flow...
And proceed to assume sacred burial
To make way for the procreative successor
Lays down his axe;
His work he has completed.
What next but to surrender
To the undulating body of the Serpent Queen
Who feels her way in grave solemnity
Out of your tautened throat -
Whose peculiar gyrations challenge
The amaranthine disguise
Like a peacock feather with voidish eyes.
I can say accurately -
(Though what is accuracy but
Another qualitative death?) -
That a man like that means no harm.
One can feel the warmth in his gentle brown eyes,
Seeping like frenzied abbesses from burning cloisters
To inhabit the furthest reaches
Of one's furthest extensions,
To caress first the parched land of barren intent
And then to plunge with virulent mass
Into the stomachs of heroes.
He does not scuttle or turn to ugly dust
Like concrete underneath the gaze of dusk
Reminiscing on its own lost dreams;
Nor does he utter just one peripheral word
Filled with malintent or carnal misgiving.
What a divine breath -
Like pure white snow or a stone rose -
Unfolding to accept troubled offspring
Defiled from without
He forgives.