There was a pallor
A pale on palace blue.
And a spearing
Of skewing cue.
There was a gauze.
A vale on stale cause.
And a clear ring
Of pure pause.
There was a tear.
It left a glimmer,
A jewel on the azure.
Soon the soft stitch network
Had all but all out scattered.
And lufts and muffs of mist rebound,
Nothing near to the renowned.
But at the slight chance,
That the bight lance;
The gem would glance.
With that slight chance,
That the bight lanced,
The gem did sonorous glance.
The why must die,
When each moment change begins.
And each moment beginning ends.
That dome above our heads is forever inchoative.
And in that liminal transience,
The mellifluous mantra of supplication,
It manages community.
To wane and wax the spectrum of magnality.
The hall of chaotic mists and potentials.
The ariose prelate or the belligerent claviger.
The spectrum to ourselves is the sky.
Not the heights to which we reach,
But the the creativity at which we try.
With community as fate.
25 March 2015