He proceeded to unmask his first face. A decrepit thing, with a long, hoary beard. He previously had been speaking of the crawling pace of time and its dominion. It was a cumbersome spectacle to watch, he said, even for one as patient as he. But to continue on his point, he removed his elderly face. The second was pitch black, dark as night. And glassy—much like obsidian. It was not much like a face, though; more like a streaming deep into the back-corners of empty spaces. There was a multitude of scintillating points all about this second face. They moved every so slowly—barely at all—but they were for sure shifting. He then started to muse on the impossibility of understanding matter. He was mighty smug when talking about this particular topic, like an older sibling showing off some paltry achievement to a younger sibling. The topic of matter being the extent of existence elicited a quite annoying chuckle from the deep nether of blackness. Making his point—whatever it may have been—he discarded his second face and allowed me to gaze upon his third and final face. This one was not a face per se, but more of a feeling, a sense—but still a "face". In lieu of eyes there were blinding sub- and super-thoughts. Existents and ideas that were a bit too overwhelming to perceive. Where would be a mouth, there were instead sounds of a million-million voices, or something akin to voices. Each emitting lifetimes of knowledge and memories. Perhaps it was the entirety of life (vastly compacted) attempting to make itself significant by signifying and recognising its own being. He attempted to explain that the beginning was in fact not a beginning at all, but one layer in the midst of an infinity of other layers. The best representation he could think of was an onion. But at this he just burst into raucous laughter and could not be made to continue his lecture. Not able to suffer him any more, I awoke.

Their Eyes Became the Stars

In the soil is where their bodies once slept
Children of bitter winters and more golden summers
What journeys were theirs are as ours
What fears and nightly visions haunted then do so now
But night fell forever over their lands of green
And their eyes became the stars
Studding the vault of the heavens for as long as the fires remain lit
Looking up at them, the stories come back to me
The songs of long-dead ghosts with forgotten names
And sometimes in the hills, in the mist, their shades move
Children of the harvest, in tombs of the earth

M.M. — 18-Jan-2014  

Revelation of the Star

All the world is a hard-worn dream
And dreams umbrae of the veil
Like light damned into fog
Like existence wholly devoid of Will

I am a stumbling mass, of biochemical magic
A pounding upon the block of conation
Sound rippling through space
And movement in the swells of time

When we breathe it is a quiver of the universe
We come tearing like comets of unwavering force
An impetus of aeonic being, origin and impact
Stars settled on existing and yet disintegrating

Within the confines of body and finite organism
Thought perforates now and again; infinity seeps in
So that our voices become ululations of starbursts
Our language a muttering of numbers and vibrations

We are all-force, all-time, all-will
A time and universe in our own right
Risen with the First Dawn and destined for entropic end
But always moving! always in action!

The dream is a dirge and testament
One lifeless and deathless in the void
Such that endless strife is our eternal brand
Striving to awaken, to end our beguiling Sleep

M.M. — 04-Jan-2014