Pin-pricks of bright white light,
Like magnesium burning,
Unclose dormant eyes,
Set in the mummified remains
Of a mystery tradition,
Buried inside dark tombs,
Awaiting the snake of time
To consume its own tail.
Patterned veils composed of
A coded grammar
Are inscribed in bone
And illuminated by
Dull, maroon flames
Burning in every
Conceivable direction
Where the godhead is.
Outside, silver edges of moonlight
Serve as
Extra-dimensional portals, where
Creatures of folklore appear.
Hoary and primal,
Their serpentine skin
Is suffused with conscious
golden light,
Ornately woven into tiny,
ribboned triangles.
Like fishermen of the inner seas,
They reel the mind
Out of the tepid waters
Of this block universe
And cast it deeper down
The temporal stream
Through a hyperspace
Of non-local consciousness,
To a borderland where
The mystery opens wide
And revelation can decry:
Mind is the travel machine—
The doorway which opens us
Unto the vistas of
infinite
subjective
time.
