Summon you letter, sound of the din, curse of believer, friend of the wind. Slip of the season, born on the range, more than a reason, pictures at play. Subtle translation, that bends to the bow, cradle of spirit, bereshit below. Infants and candles, minor keys play, lost in the physics, of a new day.
Crystal of distance, sight of the glow, death of the phantom, start of the show. Creation tunic that shields a new start, lightning, and earthquakes, spoken by sparks. Screaming and yelling while banshees die, balance of two worlds born on a sigh, grace, and passion while bodies play, born like a baby, the start of a day.
Destiny of water, conscience below, immortal groaning born of a soul. Shadow of wisdom, equal in time, pressure of fortune, song, and pure rhyme. Imminent kingdom, death of the gloom, systems of motion, under the moon. Heavens are splitting, while feathers lust, done in pure image, the creators trust.
The first day of spoken creation, what was it like? Did devils look to the sky and marvel at solids appearing out of chaos? Did the ‘Ancient of Days’ motion or simply communicate by transmitted thought? So many languages, from time to time emitting the creation story, some complex, some scrawled simply in stone. I believe in order for there to have been a first day, there had to have been a last, and before that a first, end to end all in a circle, always spoken, always a first day! – DS 01/14/2014