Transformation

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Transformation

Poem

In me are the climes of a twilight season;
My erstwhile sky of cloud-ideals scatter away,
A pristine blue of calm and serenity surrounds,
Moments solemnly pass orderly and silent.
Only are heard the hymn murmurs of the praying heart,
Deep within the priest-flame in his sacrificial lair.
The simple edifice of a clarified heart his base,
Summoning from distant gods their powers,
The meticulous crafter at play in his immortal task,
Gathering the strands innumerable of the veil,
Preparing the field for a mighty coronation of the self.
Everywhere the clang of hammers shattering old spells,
Hidden architect gods erecting their new ramparts,
The walls turn canvasses for luminous artist hands.
Through all this a vast assenting consent grows
And I turn pliant to the ways of transformation.