The Voices roll and diffuse; a choir from beyond the veils.
When He least expects it, they tear through, and stir some sleeping truth within;
Vivid flashes of flight and a shadow cast beyond the grasp of the sun.
Strange powers rise and fall, grow and die, break ‘gainst the inner cliffs in a desperate spray.
Something wants to be heard, wants release; something must escape to see the light of day.
He does not understand why turmoil so oft embraces his days.
He cannot endure its deep ache, nor those visions unleashed from the depths.
A subtle hint and the dam bursts and pounding waters surge.
One moment He is the breadth of the sky, the next, a chance aggregate of finite cells,
In a trice alternates between God and death, Eternity and man and a myriad other spells.
Life’s otherwise a perfect sleep, suspended safe above unrest.
Wherein He moves, loves and dreams like one who wakes while his lamp’s asleep.
Most often at home in modes of shallow reality,
He escapes the Truth that rages in distant realms within, and neglects his potent birth,
Until that swift instance when worlds collide and Voices rise to spell the secret dearth.
Voices… voices kindle and inspire; a summons from beyond the haze.
They linger on whilst He fades into the hush of habits and a lull of dull delights.
Like heralds of His strong deeds in some larger life,
They gladly wrest his apparent peace, which once improvised infects His true intent.
What half forgotten passions still smolder like embers, long after life’s cherished fires are spent?
While he toils fruitlessly to sow glittering seeds of sterile quests,
Untold dreams and fervors throng his breast, if only he hearkens the Voices’ claim,
Powers that mould worlds and destinies await his conscious beck.
Perhaps he is god, perchance a man; for sure a soul who His own ancient law obeys,
His truth’s more mysterious than space is deep; His origins forever shrouded in forgotten days.
