The Cloudy Bookshelf

When that storm arrived, the entire congregation in genuflection knelt before Her poetic prayers, they saw themselves shining, eventually, in Her reflection scandalously quiet like perculating thunder, their minds cracking open, their whole chicken little sky falling closer ever inward whipping sharp luminescent veins, a lightening of sorts, on the unheated marked all, woke a different kind of Light pulsing vivid life into their new small revolutions, their gold mounted mourning star eclipses old worlds burning, see The See holy boiling, it crashes undone on every vetted sure, the regeneration over-rides their lesser kingdoms their skin peeling back like old pages turning, the new life crackling underneath It all, the crystalline dendrites like new words, unpicking the old, now see the fresh tomes opening, mind gates now walked through in a hot rushed rapture each one, a novella, a short novel, or long short story, contemplated, keenly, It's now reading their internal gestating peurile histories, their fontenelles, soft and malleable like new borns, baptised, thumb marked with ash some say the Gorgon Storm turns hearts to stone, not so, the heart beats to Its own drum, ever eternal It births all, the electric ghost haunts all, uninvaded, that Mother, seated regally not the Babylon Whore but still, calmly calculating the ultra-violet iris flexing within the all seeing Eye of the Storm, gracefully divine smiling patiently, both fierce and genteel schizoid in the central core of us all, there in that place, right royally commanding us all like the machines we are, orchestrated like music we move like puppets, Punch and Jude's Judies conjoined twins inveigle us, we are likeable and unlikeable another unseen theatre's stage all Petruchios and Kates string-pulled instruments, we empower Its performance, It permeates us all to perform well-oiled, like Its terraforming each our own new character, each our own part, to be played in Its servile world, there, freedom-of-choice rules - choices and Its lines of demarcation keeping notes on us all for future review She smiles unseen, knowingly at us all, reading us all like an unacknowledged higher self sitting up there in the cloudy banks like a shining golem, holding the scales, always Just - another Book on a bookshelf Candide Diderot. ‘24 "Old fashions please me best. I am not so nice To change true rules for old inventions."