Seven Tablets to Name Sky and Earth

        Et dixerunt, “Venite faciamus nobis civitatem et turrem,
cuius culmen pertingat ad caelum, et celebremus nomen nostrum
                antequam dividamur in universas terras.”

        The Gateway of Gods

The fallow earth sits featureless
afore the walls of an impending storm,
those which conceal gardens blessed
with both the vast knowledge of man
and the wickedness of all things;

Walls which conceal bells tolling away the hours
        of borrowed days and limitless complacencies;
the hammers’ ringing on division's delusive tower
cradled in the crook of nourishing arms branching;
the banners’ snapping in an attempt to animate the bodies
of gem adorned serpents scaling the sentries of the seasons
woven brown, green and gold, and as naked as innocence.

Our colossal structures once wore sanguine cloaks
bestowed upon bleached backs by a setting sun,
and, while brick upon brick blushed at such attention,
they dashed their hopes with every falling shroud.
The cries of alley laments and wails of flooded sewers
would wash through the great expanses of the city,
wine stains upon the minds of floating dreamers,
warning them of the danger in seeking the stars,
crashing upon the walls of bare souls, blind impulses,
        and marrows worn to the bone.

        The night would end as all nights,
fleeing the tops of trees, buildings, and thoughts,
dirty knees praying for forgiveness and sanctuary.
                The morning would come,

chasing away bleary laments for man
and conducting the requiems of spirit
to wish the wheat grasses would bow,
        and the trees weep,
        and the flowers sow,
        and the reapers reap,
as we donned this colossal weight
with proud eyes and tired limbs.

The forsaken fields, however, took no fear,
new life would sprout from the carcasses.
Afore the walls of the coming storm,
they embraced the tears as fallen brothers,
recognizing we are all broken
when first we are borne to this Earth.
        This was not a tempest brewing,
        it was just a coming storm.

                Lex Talonis

We laid our brick and mortar foundations upon the sands
with the knowledge that we too are composed of its grains,
        were shown warmth in an exhaled breath
                before being molded and shaped
                into precious, perfect glass figurines
        by deft hands that then gave us the fire of life,
        carefully painted us the colors of bliss and pride,
        clothed us in our hypocrisies and impatience,
placed us atop the mantle close enough to the precipice
                        to see the fall.

        We were given untainted perfection,
so when we chose to make a hell of our heaven
and a heaven of hell, to never slow down and never look back.
We failed to realize we were never good at making decisions,
or at realizing we had never made a decision in the first place.

        Tell me, how is it we always manage to forget
        the marvelous display of fragmented colors and lights
        reflected dancing upon the blades of swords aflame,
        emitted from the infinite prism shards of our souls
                        from when we fell.

                We build grand staircases to the sky
                looking to forever spy on ourselves
because we have this need for someone to always be watching;
we have this need to feel their eyes upon the back of our necks
                just before we tighten the knot
                        and kick out the chair.

        Exultation is so difficult to find when no one is watching,
                and harder still if we are all alone.

We realize we want to be held accountable for mistakes now,
                In this indefinite instant in time,
are compelled by our nurture to seek out instantaneous
                control and understanding, and
                gratification and knowledge,
when all we truly need, all we truly want is resolution
rather than deal with the torturous curse that is inevitability.

        We want to locate the glass eyes of lost children,
        notice the moon’s reflection dance their alluvion faces,
        tint the surface of the waters with shattered colors,
        and cast illusive orbs of light onto the walls of our caves.
        In the absence of fire, we worship this image as real,
                paint this visage into eternity,
reach into darkness, brush the sediment off with the hem of our cloaks,
        and pray to God that the youth can see
                        where we are so blind.

                Golden Cups and Bloody Scales

        In school we had learned that conquerors
        are the sculptors of fiction and of future,
        the most decorated writers in history.

The elders told us that everything we see before us
        the government, the cities, the armies, the books
        the religion, the life, the school, the death,
        all the vision of these skilled artisans,
and, at the center, their visionary masterpiece:
        poverty, hunger, and blessed survival.

They explained how history is written
        in the blood of the fallen,
        in sun-stained sweat hallucinations,
        and in the tears we couldn’t quite catch.

We embrace these words as mute brothers in arms,
        for not one of us had a voice
        before being borne to this Earth.

        We decided that when we grow up
        we wanted to be the writers,
                rather than the words.

        So we speak in Babel,
        as God speaks in Latin;
        the dead speak in silence,
        as love speaks in surrender.

        We are the youth of the world.
        We will be the wrath of God.

The world would not exist without those who came before you;
the world would not exist without those who come after you.
You recognize this and yet, all that matters is this moment right now,
        nothing before, and nothing exists to matter after.
        All life collapses into some fixated center,
                and that center is you.

                Ea: The Depths of Abzu

This is why it is so dark you cannot see,
why a flood of water has swept over your senses.
A beautiful voice drowning in dreams of tidal waves
        called to you once, called your name,
and you reached out to try to grasp and comprehend
rather than echo its call and curl up into your sea urchin shell
        and count the passing ripples and the spaces in between
        and create meaning from numbers and patterns from chaos
                and waiting, just waiting ever so patiently
                        to never be found.

Here shadows take shape and lead us by the hand
through turns and decisions and even more shades still
till we can no longer differentiate between what is real and
what is just the projections of our mind in hand's creations.

                We exist in this darkness,
with every muscle tensed and every sense strained
until beautiful release comes with the shofars' sound
rebounding off the walls and reverberating in the foundations;
        no names are spoken and no names are heard,
but all our voices are soon brought forth into one harmonious
appeal to something greater than we can comprehend:
                The roaring of the seas!
and the walls around us crumble in upon this space,
                bury us beneath the earth;
                bury us beneath the waves.

                        Tribulatio et Tenebrae

The voice will say this is the womb of the Earth
        as we pluck gentian’s from the stones
                and wear them in our hair;

The voice will say this is the furnace of the Earth
        as we drift in and out, sleeping away the nights
                and dreaming away the days;

The voice will say this is the tomb of the Earth
        as we expel white flames from our throats
                and try to remember the names
                        of our gods;

The voice will say this is the truth of the Earth
        as the last thoughts to exist are questions
                and we slowly collapse back
                        into the center.

The voice will say we now begin anew
        as we forget everything we once were
                and everything that once existed
                and cry as loud as our lungs can fill
                as we are pulled forth into this bright world
                        anew as individual grains of sand,
                        seraph ash piles, and star dust:

        Take heart, my friend,
        for you are the stars,

one day they will reclaim you.
 

---

 
_{All life collapses into some fixated center,
        And that center is you.}

 
_{Sleep easy, my friends.}

_{image is 'The Walls of Babylon and the Temple of Bel' by William Simpson and is public commons.
the first three lines are a quote from a Vulgate i discovered in a gutted Swedish cathedral.}