The wanderer halted,

  looking back at dreams,

  as pure as snow,

  for the tread of aureate-footed light

  lay far behind,

  still drowned in twilight's

  stagnant purples,

  toiling up even to the very threshold

  of the heavens,

  He heard the eagles hail the sun

  Round the forsaken throne

  of a nameless god,

  until the morning's levin-colored ray

  lightened the back of the fallen angel,

  and he paused,

  while over him ethereal glory glowed

  rousing the dreaming colors

  in the clouds

  to give the sea its

  immemorial green

  and strike the towering cities

  of their memories

  into gold along the low horizon.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Returning vision flowed,

  power revived his ailing limbs,

  and he sought to define

  reality by ascertaining meaning

  from the tellurian shapes and images

  of dreams:

  the effigies of men

  and women dancing

  before bonfires,

  The noontide shapes of

  devils in the clouds,

  The meres that curve in the darkening

  night towards a memory

  of Pandemonium

  and the chaos that birthed the stars.

  Demon moons blaze paths

  across the midnight sky:

  The watch-fires of

  the ever vigilant gaze

  flame like fallen stars,

  a eternal crown of gold

  on a coveted horizon,

  forever out of reach.