The future stage was set with the resonance of her wake.

Yet there was no ceasing to exist,

Only tongues to temper and sooth,

And beseeching to persist.

Secrets not withheld from them in the eyes of truth.

All laid bare for the soul to see,

Waking in wonderland, inquiring within, flourishes about,

Gears turning, who are you and who is me?

The Golden Age was set for this stage, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Cyclical spirits fevered with pride,

Squelching the flames of the Phoenix too soon,

Giving way to the rising tide.


Drowning her half-kilter under the full moon,

They cannot sleep through the night,

She reflects its full glory in the depths of the sea.

There is no shadow without the recognition of light.

Waking in waves, they know not where to wander or whom to be.

Playing roles of who saves whom like burning sages,

That have come before them all,

Wiping fear from their brows,

She gently numbs minds and hearts in stages,

before they fall.

Phoenix rising from the depths of hell.

They raise their hands as she burns once more,

with kerosine dripping from their tongues,

spitting into the flames of lore.

She quakes and wakes them, shakes them in song from mighty lungs,

until they dance from the fury of ash to flame and back again.

Players and poets capture the muse and speak as if they knew her,

The only way to be certain,

Is for each to find their own soul’s cure.

Rise to lift the veil between heaven and hell,

And close the final curtain.

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