An onyx monolith, and snow-white sands
are stuck in my mem'ry; I know not why
but every night I dream of them. They call,
their music blending with whistling winds and
the cries of distant beasts I do not know.
Some nights I lay my hands upon the stone
and feel the carvings; towers spiraling
to foreign skies—or might they be giants,
Immortalized in art, they'll never fall,
and stand forever 'neath star-mottled sky
that dances in ways I cannot describe.
The stone is cool beneath my probing hands
The carvings sometimes beat like veins of blood
I know not why; the dreams give no answers.
They fold upon themselves like whorls and waves.
I catch a glimpse of hieroglyphs, or old
Chinese, or Oracle Bone Script, or Grecian
Linear A or Linear B,
But when I look it's nothing, taunting me,
Apophenia, sense from the senseless
weary delusions of my dreaming mind.
And then I wake, and go to my job
that pays quite well, demands the smallest tithe
of daily soul.
In metal-glass towers that gleam with light,
that's not their own, but stolen from the sun,
(which I barely see). In those grey spires
I sit all day and press on a keyboard
moving letters and numbers around.
I'm told it's of great importance, to someone,
somewhere, that I shift all these symbols,
but who, I know not,
nor do I care.
Ripples on silver monuments.