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Adage Of Chant

 Chaos and generation of gods. Swirling into place. Fragments of the tablet remaining, reminding. The abyss also had not broken. Centering held.


No law but that of strength and poverty  remains. Polis poised in process. Sprung from springing, language hasn’t been so bad, long and chill and stiff as a rock. The rock bears a voice, a sketch of time, an eager immobility. The holy place had not been made but found about time. The place holds the love, the people, the person, the love. Being fragments of the tablet, of the words in garland. In this place and then every, eventual perplexity of chorus.

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