Hyperion

A bright star shimmers over once still seas: my final destination treks across troubled waves and over seething storms my instinct is heightened and honed far from suffocating cold northern climes On the final ascent, over the last bruising steps, gasping...grasping for air. Now I'm breathing with consummate ease. Once more I taste the scented air and sense the cool ocean heaving. As Trinita Dei Monti marble beckon, a dark figure in the doorway is veiled steeped in shadows lifts a white hand, parts the mask, shows a pale face aged wrinkled; as if fated with a tragic task; but in an instance illuminated cold flesh radiated by golden braided beams; pale eyes by azure blue brightened as all darkness dissipates in a flash. Do I dream? a face transfigured transmigrated. remembered with maternal smile. unable to speak in this mortal world, words silently mouthed, not uttered like magenta moths caressing air with fragile wings flinching close still unsavaged by care and disease, opening the door into the church. its perfumed aroma seems a perfect release. relinquished now a warm hand welcomes me to this insubstantial tomb. Is it an illusionary monument? poetry has written my name into a fountain of dreams in eternal water etched ripples that ruffle a lake's troubled surface skimmed by pebbled words if you too dare to dream, let these Spanish Steps be your stairway your path your pilgrimage to the high windows: below, the square; above, stark bright stars vortexing shuddering shimmering the night my life mask now a sharp new constellation.