The Hymn Of The Robe Of Glory
I wrote the hymn of the robe of glory
one rimy Sea Point morning (it was a friday)
Then I chanted aloud what I’d just written
The words took flight from my tongue
Crystallised before mine eyes
Into the very garment they described
Then I stepped off my Sea Point balcony
Hovered for an instant above the ground
Donned the Robe of the Hymn of Glory
Ascended on high
Past the roof of myself that I thought was the ceiling
Now here I am
In calm eternal
Being the meaning
of my story
And I pointed to the hanging row of me
Rolled dice between my guillotines
every grinning head of me
daring me to be re-born free
In the tender contrast between my Jeckyll and Hyde
in the moment of hesitation
before the lip of my wave breaks
in the sound of my gulls
summoning the dawn
with a babe’s surprise, as if it were the first,
in the mountain’s shadow-drenched
silhouette
as the city lights say goodbye to the sun
in my drowsy head as it hits the pillow
in the dreaming state we misname reality
in the wakefulness beyond my body
in the dark mirror of my soul’s opposite charge
where You are
is what there Is
When you despaired and you called my name
It was my voice I heard calling you
It’s the all of each other
And the Other in us all
That it’s my voice answering
In your hour of pain
And you’ll never be without me
Phaedrus was the book I lost
Phaedrus whose glyphic runes
Portended the End Infernal
And beginning Again’s game Eternal
Now lost to me as my quest for meaning
Was I the subject of my dream
Or the object of its dreaming?
Phaedrus is gone and in its place
My own epistemology of
Twilight’s last meaning
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