Poetry-Thing Thursday: Raw Aether

I know of no magick,
like that which I’ve seen
through third-eyes,
or in-between dreams.

It is soft and supple.
Virgin and pure.
A reality beyond reality,
yet formed of raw aether.

It is there that it bore us,
unto this chaos of light,
and it is there we shall return,
whence comes the long goodnight.

Though we know not our purpose–
if indeed there be one–
we know we find service
in answering a call,
whether for light or darkness,
it matters not,
but we must remember,
the truth is in foresight.
It is but buried.
Yet given due time.
I too shall carry,
the aether’s death-sign.

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