how much greater they are than me.
Yet I swim in their midst:
it seems the only place to be.
They are flowing over the portals,
eclipsing all the radiant doors.
Yet the light pours. It pours
through them like the water of life
they contain. And it grows from all
creation's needed stain.
At the threshold, they are with me
like a nerve storm. With me like
a rain of eyelashes, writing me
like nanotechnologic ink.
With me as I'm ripe to sink.
They don't need to feel anymore:
they simply emit. I am with them
like a lover and not a whore:
but I would be their whore.
Their presence is the lion's
captured roar. But they
are still wild. Their departure
is as mysterious as their birth.
They never belonged to man.
Now they belong to God,
their shattering maker.
Their return must come
through the unworthy:
this is the irony that pleases
Him best, for He is Anarchist.
They linger near the rim
of a great fiction: these
necessary devils and their
warped angelic diction.
The fireplace of these
senseless locations
whispers all their names.
And the song frays to extend
its living ends: one burrows within.
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