There is a tale told
of a fisherman who
when just a boy
found in his nets
a bottle black
all sealed up and corked.
And so innocently
he broke the wax
and doing so
released the vex
oh noxious sprite
mercurius:
mischevious
mercilous
cacaphonous
And like a band
of deranged players
the orchestra of noise
and lights
beleagured him
and beset all his actions
with disruption.
Day after day,
a din upon dins.
To his wit's end
he was driven
across a vital switch
wherein the poles of his
preconceptions reversed.
And so he looked
again upon the noise
but with the eyes of love
And so he looked again
upon the bottle
but with the eyes all open
and so he sang a song
to the band of the Howling
and he so drummed a rythme
of rounded heart and soul
and so like a sheepdog
in loyal circles returning
he swept up his horrors
into music
into love
and he turned the bottle inside out
till it was as a surface unending
and he sang the myriad
monstrosities
up onto the open enclosure
and where they fell into the flow,
oroboros,
the continuous,
the sufficient,
unbegotten
did curl them
into a fountain
that recovered
refreshing
every difference
into the total body
of magnificent
and ever changing
rest
And back into the sea
the serpent-bottle swam
alive with every drop of dew
it ever contained
and more
and the fisherman lived long
and wise
and the deep was ripe
with plenty
and the heart
was fruitful
the people made wise
and the land
was prosperous
thereafter.
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