The altar calls

candles in the window

streets passing by

a world dreamt and dreaming

creation at the touch of thought

and they smile

deities in the forests, in the fields

on oceanfronts, in desert sands

written upon by the footsteps

of those who came before

grist for the mill spinning, grinding

grasping is the midwife of it all

even this, scratched into rock

and light unveiled

is given up with all the rest

in constant worship

at an altar to apocalypse

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Photo by Jonathan Petersson on Unsplash