They have come –
blindfolds covering their eyes –
ears, mouth, nose: masked;
Wrestlers of the moon –
Defenders of the winter solstice.
The night is made too bright by the vexing symbol of existing day.
So they gravitate, arm-in-arm, (an army) to crush and rip the moon
from its celestial shelf –
Sending it to the ocean floor.
Displacing the waters of our world to the highest peaks of land,
now distant islands,
where (through ice and stone) caves are hewn for dwelling.
The earth’s core, in memoriam, begins to cool.
Tomorrow they will start on the stars,
crumbling them to dust,
a fine sediment upon which they will sleep.
Then, in final frown,
the sun will rise and set to its demise –
Causing the waters to rise, displaced by raging heat,
over the island peaks –
Rushing water into the lonely lairs;
A final baptism of judgment.
The sun will continue to sink into the earth’s core,
reigniting it – a refiner’s fire – up through the waters –
A volcanic rebirth –
Casting the sun back into the heavens and land upon the sea;
And there will be day forever.