Alchemisland

A pugil of thyme twisted from the stem by a princess finger, scent lingers long after burning

The cooling ashes churned, one mortal hand stirs the mortar which stirs the dirt perhaps to something immortal

Portal to pineal reopening, shaking off of ivy on the less-used eye

Lantern of Osiris grows outward from the brow, its long stalk way out in front like a ramming prow of a Greek galley 

He sees denizens of the Valley of Kings arrayed as if living, parading before him

He hears their tales, old actors each enacting a fragment of that fractured old play

Upon finishing their recitals their eidolons fade away, without violence, like bad ideas

As one is shaped by those one meets, one’s environment seeks to hear a clear speaker

That it might produce more perfect pictures

Whatever strictures one endures with rictus grinning are fictions of self-policed minds

Do what thou wilt shall be the only law etched in the pillar supports.