Where streets once stood, a panicked mood, reduced to rubble,
The Geist’s contented shadow, gorged itself and grew,
Half the town gone, they shriek and mourn, a crater…
Some grieve for the lost ones, ‘I got here too late’,
Others try to outrun, ‘got here much too late’,
I've never felt so outdone, ‘always far too late’,
Dead numbers grow, body moves on its own.
So I stand and straighten my coat,
Uttering countless barbarous names,
My hands reach out to touch them,
I channel through the pain.
Prose is slowed,
Yet the ego knows and exclaims,
Shared unconsciousness borrowed,
Bright transcendence glows,
Thus the ego knows,
The Sulfur solo.
That beast impervious to my words,
The Geist so strongly scented, mocks my every move,
As the unshackled Seeress weakens and fades from my view,
Fill the vibrating air.
My mind drifts, a place of strength,
‘Won't be late again’,
Nostalgic tone on the tip of my tongue, I begin to hum.
Its unyielding form, gradually torn.
Contagious, oh the Sulfur Psalm spreads,
Mouth to ear, ear to mind,
The crowd, they chant, a song borne from their soul.
That musty shroud, it must unfold...
The words and melody resonating in the air:
A psalm! Not of the heavens but from deep within the earth.
By pure intituition the hymn is intoned by each trembling lip and
a feeling of blissful nostalgia washes over all.
We've known this cantrip by heart, long before even our births.
His hand withers in sympathy and amplifies the unison,
Sing, the Sulfur Psalm!
Onlookers eyes now filled with fire,
They sing a verse older than time,
My left hand conducts them like choir,
The Geist wilts and shifts to brine.
There are somethings in this world which transcend statement,
Our words can move but they'll only take us just so far.
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