Movement One:
The Dust of Time

Argentium and helios. Elemental dispensations upon
the endless variations of creation and dissolution.
We are not yet born, and yet we live in the precognitive
memories of this universe. Sworn to, torn apart to give
meaning to riddles we will not understand. Primitive
and purgative thoughts, shots in a darkness infinite
and impenetrable except by a single word. Unheard light
shining in a shockwave of raving deification to write
words on a tabla rasa. Ab initio. And so we go forward
blindly and bravely. Slave to the caves of ignorance bored
deep into the cliffs of conciousness. Waiting for flint, steel
and the concept of impact. Facts filtered in a surreal
windowbox of unplanted seeds yet destined to bloom. We'll
find redemption not in our own lies, but in the surprise
granted by an awakening and truth not bound in hucksters' lies
and the bartering in the temple. Simple evolution, boundless
and full of promise, like lips before a kiss. The elegance
of memory. The pretention of man. The truth of one eye
opened to walk in circles through God's infinite creation, try
as we might to pierce the darkness. We live. And we die.

Movement Two:
variations on a theme of the hunter

We are all Orion. Mythic and bold
sold into slavery
by our own cunning. Running
to overtake our prey to slay
it in the name of sustenance.
Thoreau only missed the volume
control, not the mark. Desperation
is our meat. We feed ourselves 
truth like bandits savaging 
a deserted church looking 
for the priest's stash of gold.
Cold catalepsies seize us all
and who knows if we are aware
of the post mortem knife,
merely unable to scream
as it slices into our hearts,
dices our souls and prices
our brains out of the market
for grave robbers who need
a new trowel. Herculean 
tasks before him, man asks
with a quiet voice the price
of failure. And there is no
answer he can accept. Logic
leapt from the parapet and fell 
like a star to delight distant
eyes. Surmising Gods in thunder
and Gods in rain and Gods
in every colour of the morning sun
we run like French vanilla ice cream
in the hot Venice Beach sun, the 
extra quarter for the premium brands
not saving us from the heat. Sweet
is not synonymous with true value.
The venue shifts and Orion lifts
his head from contemplation and
strikes with club made of galaxies
knitted together only by the
imagination of man.

Movement Three:
Rainfall on the forge of Ouranus

And the metal is made anew in the fires of Hell. Vulcan
hammers the steel made of fallen dreams and arching
archetypes. Ripe for renewal. The old blades gathered
and melted to their essence. Burning away the blood
in a flood of superheated gas. Plasma burns dreams
back into life. Either or, the iron ore is reincarnated
again to make a new blade. Not Excalibur, for the Lady 
in the Lake went to find the water slide. Something new
and elegant. The clubfoot god waves to he on whose
shoulder rests Betelgeuse and holds up a new tool.
No cruel club of rough wood, but a ruby blue metal blade
made of the purified heart of a troubadour. More than 
weapon, a song incarnate. Blessed by memory, cooled
by the kiss of the Rain, the stain washed away in fires
necessary for the new conception. A sword worthy,
if nothing or no one else is, to be called Legion.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)