At the Turn—of a Page— the Author

Though the world be big and round—

Divided— side by side—

When nature be the only sound—

And within its own mysteries hide—

A time was given unto the day—

To lead all that lived and followed

It’s direction— it’s light— it’s way—

And from none it borrowed—

Accurate and consistency

Was it’s way always known—

As it gave us light to see—

Just as Prometheus had shown—

For the time be handed— over

When it begins to rise—

At the turn— of a page— the author

That lives behind our eyes—

For as the clouds be parted

Across the skies—

They who were blinded—

Will have new eyes—

A song with rhythm and melody

Sung— from the souls we wear—

The one where nights biggest mystery

Reveals something, we share—

Though— this some may ponder—

A mystery to the deaf and dumb—

It shall be not a hidden wonder—

To the few— the prophets— the some

Though as the truest and darkest mystery

Lay hidden to the lay— unversed

Indeed— it is who they themselves be—

Which was amongst the cursed—

Behind our eyes— the ones we see

When looking upon the world a mirror—

Lay that biggest mystery—

Made by this body— it’s cover—

Already Known and Done

Though a cover keeps me warm—

From baring all beneath—

Made of fire, wind and storm

Is more than just belief—

Just as one may bind—

One handed or with two—

One might—keep in mind

What together they can do—

For just as an eclipse—

Where the eyes of the world do meet—

As in superpowers— like dictatorships

Where an Eye— takes a seat

Above the Tropic of Cancer—

Holding the Tropic of the Sun—

Where— both question and the answer

Are already known and done—