~ an incantation of chaos x creation x cultivation

Beckon your heart to its very brink 
What do you find?

At the utmost, the characteristic stuff of legends yore
On the extremity, a final detail of personal lore
In the heart of Time, a tyrannical chaos anticipating its tame
Upon the tale’s tail, a smoldering flame and a nemesis name

Stridently admonishing from a vantage we cannot perceive 
He waits, 
And He listens.

He watches
And does not act 
His aura actualizes 
In the spectral threads of materia 
His emanation permeates our every moment 
Even while dissipating into uncaptured yesters

Upon the peak of every brink, 
Transcendent energy — His overflow — goes through us

We may grasp at it in the urge of demi
In an aasimarian word 
Or a daemonic turn 
Pieces of All coursing through our vains and veinities

Grasped but not held for long 
Losing the track to discord and disturbance that become less anomalous every day, 
We try to find our voice once more

Our voice 
What an angelic tool, 
May we use it for more than just babbling?

A Man sings when he is gleeful
He sings when he is sad 
A song spirals through us primeval 
Notes, tones, and tunes, the holy triad

Our hands picking up wood and brass and ivory 
We begin to play, too 
Stalling in roteness, unto freeing instinct
Our amplifying accompaniments soon shine

Maddening duality strikes at us 
In the performance, 
What to say? 
And how to say it?

In the making of music, 
inside of your passionate communicae, 
Why stop with the craft of one soul? 
Why not deign to culminate them All?

With exuberant presence superseding silent absence, 
The audience to your song sings on
Unto themselves, unto All 
Unto to the very edge of this existence 
They sing still! even while they crawl!

In the disquietude of Original Sin’s oblivion, 
Amidst the ruins of Babel, 
On the scales and through the orchestrations, 
Shattered tendrils of solidarity begin to mend

Greater than words, 
Artful melody springs 
Steps bend to dance 
Information spirals into incantation 
All of it comes together in a burning-soul symphony of cultivating elemental ardor capturing every One of humanity no matter to culture, creed, or canon 
More than a song, a spell

True magic reflects in every irony; 
As the most pained and articulate cry of that immortal flow, 
The spellsong is simply the voice of God

He: Faceless and fearless; neutral and forgetful 
We: the mortal dread-singer, beyond good and evil, undying to our every sin until the last breath

Resounding through the quiescence of the cosmos,
In spite of every imperfection,
In defiance of the all-encompassing disunity of our time,

The spell is cast!
And the song is heard!

Our evanescent wizardry manifests in the usage of His surfeit to triumph over Him. ~

~ art from Amadeus (1984)