06-21-2016, 10:44 PM
We wander into Sleep,
the gates of this holiest church
rusted and overgrown.
The cult of Dreamers -
in our nightcaps, gowns, and slippers -
marches onwards, into Sleep.
The landscape in the pillow greets us:
the spires of Somnium Terra
punctuate its verdancy
like full stops in a love letter,
as in a mystical fetter
the avatar of Life withers.
But what of the need to guard this place?
- To save our cardboard Christendom
from these marauding Mosselmen,
their scriptures of the Real
aloft in ev'ry meeting place
throughout our holy lands.
A sermoniser crests the mount,
shorn of beard and robe,
a column of light its only form.
'Whichever metamorphosis appeals to you,
my resting babes' it says, 'do not be pressed
in dirt and age. The only sage is called Unreal.'
the gates of this holiest church
rusted and overgrown.
The cult of Dreamers -
in our nightcaps, gowns, and slippers -
marches onwards, into Sleep.
The landscape in the pillow greets us:
the spires of Somnium Terra
punctuate its verdancy
like full stops in a love letter,
as in a mystical fetter
the avatar of Life withers.
But what of the need to guard this place?
- To save our cardboard Christendom
from these marauding Mosselmen,
their scriptures of the Real
aloft in ev'ry meeting place
throughout our holy lands.
A sermoniser crests the mount,
shorn of beard and robe,
a column of light its only form.
'Whichever metamorphosis appeals to you,
my resting babes' it says, 'do not be pressed
in dirt and age. The only sage is called Unreal.'
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe