Archetypes

The magician wraps his turban around the stars
Singing psalms in a breath to the Lord,
And the six-winged angels, a terrible image of beauty
Swing masked dance to the jazzy beat of the universe.

The fool, he watches through a rusted telescope; oblivious to the oblivion
That is unfolding. He wonders, but not for long
The wandering minstrel that he is. The stars are not his home.
Rather the eleven gates of the golden city, earth's own paradise.

And blind kings they sit in silent counsel
Discussing worlds that are not their own.
Keeping law in realms of heat and flame, an energy of delight,
While reality's toothless phantoms beg at the feet of their thrones.

And the poet. He who locks himself in a room of mirrors
With knowledge of all but himself. Plucking strings
He halts the tune of the march. But only for a while.
The river must flow and he is but treading water.