Seventy-two tapers wasted
hastily down, naked, waiting
derelict to swallow lightning,
desecrate flame just to taste it.
Haven’t they found any better
procedure than burning themselves
entirely to gather knowledge,
so openly wasteful of her?
One candle thrown into shadow
disavows all prowess until
all shadows lift themselves, fulfill
prophecies, and kill them somehow.
Heavenly names, vowels missing,
equations some maintain contain
secrecy none but men learnèd
in languages and chess can read,
Even we who cannot speak can
see into the darkness and press
onto each candle, melt a brand,
and break open letters addressed
By wayward angels to playful
grandmasters too withdrawn to pawn
off all their dangerous tables,
and take up torching the lost psalms.
Holiest practice makes it clear
mere existence is just a game;
magic gives to us the power
to rely on our Selves, our names
Truly blessed as his, made of more
permanent clay than monuments
laid happenstance at heaven’s door,
since we still exist even if
We ignore its superstition
and persist in listening to
secrets leaked like honey within
us, intuition trusting no
Other world but our own to know
and to throw onto this dim stage
shapes more immortal which somehow
outperform and disprove that sage.