The Song Of Eternity Sings Itself

There is no proper way to organize this petrified stream.

It eludes grasping, as it is liquid at the base, yet solid at the trunk, like a tree. Originating as a polar cosmogony, with anatomical roots in the spine, and metaphorical roots in the earth.

As a literal entity, it towers and looms over its symbolic shadow, an immortal elder species with a voice lost to time, each leaf a fingerprint outstretched into space – a library for the sun, and archive for a star to impress upon the earth the language of light in each green oracle.

Thus was the Green Man born beyond inner and outer space, into the luscious liminal that spun around the maypole, marrying cardinal directions with temporal subspace. Creating ripples throughout a manner of speaking in “omnitense” – a manner of speaking known as myth.

I shudder into a single-celled organism, microscopic pinholes of “Being” that, yet, collectively, fasten the hinges on joints or conduct the lungs in pumping rhythmic breaths. The cells are unaware that collectively, they orchestrate the breathing of an allegedly unified organism that is not even aware of its constant inhalations and exhalations.

The subtext of this organism is operating on a unicellular level and a much more progressive tier as well, a tier integrating countless iterations of muscle, organ and skin, in organized function. In only one body, a universe of multifaceted systems collide, intersect, and populate a microcosm.
Where does the spirit compelling the system dwell?


Where the green man dwelleth.

The axis mundi and the tau cross, broad as a spine upon which shoulders outstretch, a spine with the head of an ankh, and no feet. A willing serpent that slithers and falls face-first towards its tail…seeking eggs to devour, its jaws fasten upon itself. It becomes the egg, the head of the ankh upon which the Tau is outstretched, is hung
The Hanged Man, “to myself I sacrifice thee”, he spoke into his own eye.

his chest is pierced by an inner prometheus, and his winning fire bleeds from the wound and drips into the dirt. Upside down by the rope, bloody dirt below becomes the sky, the salt of his tears feed the roof of golgotha – the kingdom of the skull.

he hangs until he realizes that instead of being trapped inside the world, the world has been trapped inside him – behind his eyes.

the word of creation emerges like an elixer. For the rain of speaking the lost name unbinds ancient melodies from the eardrum tombs of gods. A song that sings itself flows out of his eyes, as if an inner sun conspired to inform the flowers of distant stars that the language of light is the chorus of worlds, not merely the powers which devise them. that the object which is created is won to become the creator of objects, and that the origin of either star or seed is bent between the seeing eye and the seen.

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