~ a poem
The walls were hanging from the sky.
Lights spiraled around the many spines of the terse.
Manners patrolled the velvet corrals.
Scents of distant padraigs fried and popped in the elsemoon glow.
The yearning was Oedipal, fast-turning Narcissus.
Everyone swam, and flew their wells.
Jokes were seen.
The nirn was crisp and clear, it flowed over the scapes with gentle clemencies.
The age young, the fletching dreamed.
The Man walked onto the land, in all its strangeness, beaming unto the sights and sounds, the tastes and touches to come.
Thresholds of Transformation 