Wednesday, March 02, 2022

the hanging lamp

In an abbey far from here,

up in the mountains touching

clouds, monks pray in silence;

making bread,

making beer.

A garden circles the stones:

and glass, orchards, towers, windy paths, halls and rooms...

extra large oil paintings, tapestries, stories told in candlelight,

farm to table dining, and some wildlife, a pond, the smell of morning, nap-time, and dusk.

A quiet calm pervades

the grounds.

Yet in one corner not far

from there,

a forge fire glowing

hammering, hissing,

and hot. 

A lamp is wrought;

commissioned by the King. 

A copper base, inlaid with gold

organic life. Somehow scarabs from

the middle East w/ emerald shells

shimmering in the light.

The lamp hath some miracle wick.

The forge hath imbued some

witched trick.

Shaped like the tear,

And a platinum chain.

The lamp has seen many master


It has come and gone as Ages pass.

It has hung from hearth, in home, on branch,

battle, meal, and lights the dark.

Tomorrow means little to the lamp.

It glows and dims,

like ever the passage of time.

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