What does the sky ask you when you stare up into its face
You, the chosen?
You stare up at the racing clouds, at the dancing rainbow-hued auroral glare,
Feel the icy xerography of God imprint scarlet upon your cheeks and nose
Feeling cryogenic and alienated,
Feeling exalted and exhilarated,
And the Host of the Air asks you,
"Where were you?"
It asks you,
"Why have you not come before to claim your birthright;
A banal life was never to be yours!
Find and fulfill your destiny everyone must..."
Imprisoned in the will of Spirit as in gelid crystal, you yearn for the freedom within,
The freedom that is slavery,
The invisible progression that hardens into hegemony
But high above on the tempest-blasted acrophobically towering crags
Appears a single light,
And then another...
One dazzling crimson,
The other chatoyant but magnesium-brilliant lime-green...
Reflecting luridly off the glacial ice,
And overcast sky.
© 2006 by Mark Andrew Holmes