and have no history
but their own fantasy
of the present moment: I say this
Your ignorance is eternal
you float inside your bodies
thinking you are immortal
(just as we did—)
And all this time within
many tiny hands are preparing your fall
your heartbreak, your shattered glass
ruin that is the slow dawn of compassion
that’s a disaster to your ambition
but salvation to your soul
and all the others you begin to see
realizing how blind you’ve been
enough to goosestep backwards into the night
without consequence: and to walk on by,
but now the anaesthetic’s wearing off
your de-solation awaits you
your first death and second birth
into the hands of a Living God
where we are as grains of sand,
counted like the hairs on your head…and you see
you’re expendable, replaceable, inessential
until your heart opens with who you are
that is our second chance to be human
beneath the monsters with their masks,
servants of the demiurge: I tell you
none of you are free until you fall
out of heirachy: mere fodder in their machine
where you can only begin awaken
sheepish and shorn. Play me the music
that answers to this…the sky is beckoning,
the earth calling where we are centrestage
to its roaring…trumpets of the morning,
salutations to the unseen eye of the sun.
Jay Ramsay
April 30th 2018
Stroud
Illustration: Claire Palmer