High on the mountainside above a ravine,

The dusk drapes through spaces in violet beams,

Where out juts a shelf, of rock and of green

Here they gather.

Here the coven convenes.

 

Solemn they stand, each silent and straight,

Charged with the power their wills create.

Cloaked in the shades of descending night,

Five wise bowed heads bring words to life.

These are the chosen.

And here, they unite.

 

Open before them, and centrally placed,

Is a book bound by a finely-forged grace.

Within it enchantments, rarely believed,

And timeless traces of all that has been.

There, the spells.

Here, cast to be seen.

 

The masterful minds stand proud on the shelf,

Through whispering wind, and crackling storms,

Against critical elements, spiritually sworn.

By the moons light, in static formation,

Expressing, in turn, each magical self.

Here comes elation.

Here lies their true wealth.

 

The sacred staffs like swords are drawn,

Five wizened grips have, through endless nights,

Held proud and tight, til countless dawns.

Smooth and worn, and charmed to delight,

Distinguished contours are, slowly borne,

By hands and hearts devoted to write.

Here, are their wands.

And here, is their light

.

And out from the nibs, flows hand-written scrawl:

It streams from the tips; fluid and floating,

Glittering, trailing, in swirls that enthral.

Freed from minds and weapons; devoted,

Bursting, whipping, in response to their call.

Here come the words.

Here, they are all.

 

Each line that emerges, with graceful intent,

Moves in the fashion with which it was meant.

Fuelled with a fire that desires transcendence;

Erupting, ascending, with a rapturous force,

Or a delicate slither, on a soft sweeping course.

There, is intention.

And here, are its laws.

 

They dance in the light of the tones that they render,

Free, are the potions, the prophets are blending.

Each raises their staff, for their words to descend

Downward to hover; still and suspended,

Above the white page; awaiting appendage

Here, silence arrives.

Here, for now, the whispers have ended.

 

The Elder first, raises a feather to bid his will:

Emitting sparkles from the nib of his quill,

To join his words that are patiently waiting.

A maiden’s flowers, a skull. One vengeful;

Debating. And in the air, a stage, created.

He parts the curtains, no less to unveil

Humanity in dramatic light, and the trail

Of the pity designed in protagonist plight.

The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around,

Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Alone and low, and barely heard,

His chant begins, to worship the word.

The conductor of truth, exposure, and magic.

Here is the bard.

And there, is the tragic.

 

“Words, words, words.

Words, words, words.”

 

Next, the lonely mad prophet, engraving his Songs

Strikes through the air with the whip of his wand.

And forth from the writing tip flies a glistening grain:

A single orb; of sand, and of pain. And within it,

The world that the coven explores.

Then the wildest flower is devoutly scored,

And in it, a heaven, that married its foe.

The infinite symbol is etched and a-glow,

Around and around, all-time is stretched,

And sixty small orbs are perfectly set.

The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around,

Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Divinely mad, and faintly heard,

His chant joins the bard, to worship the word.

Here, is the prophet.

And there he augured.

 

“Infinity, divinity. Infinity, divinity. Infinity, divinity.”

                         “Words, words, words.”

 

A revolutionary Magus now takes up his stance.

His staff at his side, as when walking the lakes,

Where weaving his words his lance aimed to make

Himself, a speaker of those some deemed weakened.

His spells are spontaneous, overflowing and grand,

And with a thud of its base by an elderly hand,

Ancient wood strikes at the mountainside ridge,

Disturbing all that quietly lives. And into the dark

Scurrying creatures, hurried out by his natural art.

Upon the coven unfurls a vivacious scene:

It’s Tintern: lucid, and serene – translucent,

A dream- summoned, for great, growing minds,

To reach the height of the natural sublime.

The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around,

Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Soulful and deep, aiming to nurture,

His chant begins, to worship nature.

Here is the lyric.

And there, is its spirit.

 

“Wye, Wye, Wye. Wye, Wye, Wye.”

“Words, Infinity. Words, Divinity.

Words, Infinity. Words, Divinity”

 

Now, comes the time of womanly power,

Where high is drawn, in a confessional vein,

A glass jar that holds the exquisite remains

Of an exposed, tortured, and blackened brain.

The pen that served the therapist’s hour

Fought devilish muses; and brutal devourers,

Intoxicated mortal, of truth and of flight

Now biting the air, and cutting the night,

As each heavy fig is drawn in light.

The sparkles dissemble, and whirl all around,

Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Lamenting and low; her tone is her business,

Her chant begins, with active distain.

There, is the Mistress.

And here, is her pain.

 

“I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am”

“Words, Infinity, Wye. Words, Divinity,

Wye. Words, Infinity, Wye.”

 

The final to conjure holds a Modern knife.

His nib, full-sharpened, deadly, it slices

Deep down past deception to the quivering core,

Where fragmented life lies shattered, abhorred.

Through the chattering clatter, distraction, and waste,

He plunges his sword through defensive states.

He raises his blade to the black page of the sky,

And crafts an eye of pearly bright white, stark,

And crisp, on the back-drop of night.

Then, moving on: a tarot card, and wings are drawn;

A bird, a rose, and a chess piece pawn.

The sparkles dissemble, but for the bird,

Merging with words bound close to the ground.

Boldly haunting, his melody heard,

His chant joins the chorus, to worship the word

Here, is the Modern.

And there, he disturbs.

 

“Time present, time past, Time present, time past.

Time present, Time past- Shantih, shantih, shantih.”

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am.

Words, Divinity, Wye, I am.

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am.

 

Relentlessly, the sorcerer’s chant:

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih!

Words, Divinity, Wye, I am, Time past, Shantih!

 

With wands outstretched:

Poised, and aiming at straining creations, impatiently waiting.

The glittering sphere, assembled of words from the first incantation,

Is mixed with the sparkles of bright manifestations.

Light and letters, freed in the air, aloft then descended-

Amassed, and suspended by magic minds, to be seamlessly blended.

 

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih!

 

A solitary spark permitted to fall

Ignites the page to bind them all.

 

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih!

 

In the fiery flames of the burning pages,

That immortal sages through timeless ages,

Have wrought, defended, and woven their words

In the fabric of the canonical world.

Facing the fire of the burning page.

 

Words, Infinity, Wye, I am, Time present, Shantih!

Words, Divinity, Wye, I am, Time past, Shantih!

 

Face the fire!

“Quick” said the bird,

So, quick, went the words

To face the flames!

“Go!” said the bird, to all the words,

To all that falls in ethereal showers:

To the virgin’s flowers, the infinite hours.

Face the flames, of the burning world-

Of the burning words.

“Go, go, go” said the bird, to the fig

And the eye, the jar, and the card-

“Find your words! Fuse with your words!

Be eternally bound to the written world!”

Face your fire!

Wye, infinity?

Am I words?

Infinite time but,

Wye, divinity?

I am Divine but,

Face your flames!

Iamb present

I am past

Wye am I?

Iamb words.

 

Silence.

 

Stillness.

 

The smouldering book.

There is the coven.

 

And, that is their craft.