And here in this litany of hours I stand,
by James Whitworth
More than a ghost, less than a man.
Out of contempt for the burning night’s lie,
None in the name of heaven shall pass:
Go now to your beds,
To that dream-brimmed sleep;
House all your memories in ready recollection.
Only those who in doubt still believe
Shall remain to conquer existence.
Everything we think we know,
(Knowledge being but wisdom’s whore) ,
In truth’s realm but barely abides.
Let the last word spoken be of love
Like the ancient in their sacred texts –
Esoteric doctrines of light.
Divided, and dividing still,
In following, they entrust their resurrection.
Never will be their heart alone,
To stir or start be no longer their choice.
Hand to halting hand they reach unsure,
Even in the auspices of faith.
Down to the bone those praying hands are worn,
Apprehensive of the end of time;
Where those too blind to see
Nip at lies formed on slanted tongues.
Rather than revelation,
Allow me but a moment’s reflection –
I should only go blind in an eternal light.
Demonstrating in that shining instant,
Where rest arrives in want of repose,
Abolished truths serve only to confuse.
Shall this night never end?
Am I to wait in permanence,
Mounted upon this spiritual inheritance
And knowing not where its calling lies?
Never shall solution scale the wall
Against which the solicitous lean,
Grounded by their own ignorance and
Exiled into the paradise of sin.
Dead hands of the past carry those
Among us who into iniquity fade,
Heads twisted by libertine vices.
Until the myth to which we neither ascribe
Nor, in common sense, dismiss outright
Diminishes to the dullest whisper and
Relinquishes its hold on the collective soul,
Each hour that, in indolence, passes,
Debauched remains the living world.