a prediction after losing time back

Once the gulf detaches

morning skies from midnight oceans,

the BrightWind of Song frees,

sets sail without a whisper,

without protest.

And this CloudOcean of anywhere

                                                                 wends its way through an expanding stillness,

a gray radiance rises over fields

where growers of knowledge

harvest the fruits of some Glory Tree.

Prophetic candles illume

dimming any sharp edges,

embrace by tenderness,

bridging the gap between archaic visions

and untried unspoiled inklings.

Darkness will then melt away

revealing spectacles of onlookers,

Platonic shadows

unconscious inventors

flush with unrecognizable yet brilliant paradigms.

Then nearly disembodied

safely grounded,

full rest,                                          breath,

an impasse momentous and anonymous: hail the bards…

abandoning enigmas,

desisting distrust

toasting vastness

heartening possibilities,

unfurling flags of continued flux

as the only worthy path remaining,

before skins get swapped

or positions harden and ossify

signifying the archaically primitive split dichotomy

of up                                                          

or down.