Imprisoned Dreamer

Enamored of flesh, ensorceled, bound,

yet thinking ourselves as kings crowned

in brain matter, nerves, the flow of blood

wallowing like pigs in filth and mud.

Lo! So intoxicated by youth!

That fat flask of wine, its foolish proof

belying hangovers yet to come

while we age, and so, too, each kingdom

as it falls to ruin round the throne

mistaken as ageless and our own,

for Time lays the claim ever he held,

we but stewards for what we beheld.

And so we aspire beyond such waste

of the flesh-bound world as we are faced

with rot, with ruin, with the decline

inherent in our mortal design,

seeking stairways above fickle spheres,

unbound to flesh and untouched by years

futile reaching!  Strapped down, on the back

like the condemned stretched upon the rack,

for it is the bed on which we dream

while watching stars afar, as they gleam,

seeking always the constellations

to console both men and their nations;

seeking myths to comfort fleeting meat

as it dies around us, beat by beat.

We are all Gnostic in such belief,

the temple of flesh fickle and brief.

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