Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Architect

of the silver spire,

first of the last volumes

behind you, shatter like

Icarus to a star

gather your

pieces from the rust steppes,

coat your scars in lead,

forge your masks anew,

for, when, at last, the

Sumerian Circle lays

broken upon your sacrificial

stones and the end of days

comes upon us,

meet them gratefully,

with a smile