To Sculpt The Stars

The barren plane, hushed and vast

The arrow flies and must be passed

The stage of contest, endless night

The dark undone in curtains flight

Threads of thought, like gold out-spun

Threads of thought, to braid the sun

To sculpt the stars, like wetted clay

To hold the seasons, one must pay

Coinage flowing—slick and red

Mintage of the psyche bled

Algid silence, from the tomb

Pulsing notes, as from a womb

Ruptured by the plenum’s ire

Thrumming fierce as serpent’s fire

It to be expunged—consumed

Reforged amidst the death of doom