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In a house of butter, sleep, solaced by an arcane gold
Lined with velvet carpets coy in lavish modesty.
Dulcet tones elapsing past the sundry finished chambers
Forever home though you know not, in all its bogus truth.
Sine qua non until by storm one’s armor will be melted
A bullion sham of hope and loss that weeps through losing eyes.
Open doors and draining light—then death!—but life as well—
Rebuild with oozing bricks will you, or venture, start anew.
The sun will set, the moon will rise, by pale light you must march
Trekking through the vast unknown, too cold, lost, unaided
Stumbling over roots and stones, desperate, but for what? For what?
As endless space goes stretching on, and you, along with it.
By night rain falls and dark turns black and hunters feed on light
By day you skip and smile through a sea of watching eyes.
Drink your fill from dried up ponds that give you no reflection
Find your way by shards of stars that grant no light, you think.
Labored steps, a fall—no rise; on tip-toes you must bound
As string unravels endlessly and lives go flying by.
Groping through the boundless night for what you can’t obtain
Dragged across a rough terrain, keen prisoner of faith.
But the human eye will change, and adapt to the dark
So the rain need fall no more and rise the sun need not.
Yet you still fight, endure the pain for what you call your good
Filing through with head held high, gold glowing at your feet.
But after war the proudest soldiers turn to rubble dust
And under whited sheets you lie, bile victim of the grippe.
But by the sheets by death you live to see another light
And rest on haunches weary feet to look up at the skies:
I think I saw my revelation dancing in the stars.
Copyright © Alice Locke