Time is no great
preserver of truth:
it unspools an oily ink
upon the faceless deep

Where eternity bleeds
through each beginning
and antique days 
swallow newborn night

We huddle
behind curtained firmament
braiding promises impossibly
into reality

Where veil can be pierced
upon carnelian-churned tides
spreading God’s garment
we wait

At fourth watch
witnessing
dry land appear
this side of immortality

Seeped through
like dew before sunrise:
the power of choosing
the power of creation

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