The Crystal Spire

A Mystery from vision:


A Crystal Mount rises from below the deep.

Frothing waves; mindless beginnings.

Settled and firm in the bedrock below,

With mighty claws, the Mount remains fixed.

Renowned is the spire which towers above.

As it juts though, it’s jilted by tumult.

Pierced are the clouds, never handled by men.

Obscure is what lay, just “beyond”.

Sparse are the feet which have climbed “within”.

Never, no never, to return; not again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .Sigh.

. . . . . . . . . . . . ..Amen.

Now the tale turns to oblivion beyond,

To the place no perception of man has witnessed

The spire continues to mount and recede,

Past the grasp of flesh’s fingers for gripping.

Tiny atop, is this vibrant aged spire.

Not one shred of man welcomed to climb.

From somewhere above, to the end of all things,

Only souls defy nature to bind.

The narrow gate’s not wood, stone or lime.

It’s becoming from flesh; death entwined.



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