Here the Gyres rest

Here the gyres rest.

They rise and rise these gyres that grow and growl;
Deep underground these cowed geezers grate,
And they don’t dread nor doubt or hide their hate,
While pondering on this their moment they prowl;
And in such proud release how gladly they howl.
In the fume of space foam, how they lift and rise,
Gyrating: creating in their sad salty golden spires,
Rich space incantations that reveal dark mires,
Where light longs to gently and deeply penetrate,
This vast astral core where wild gods cry to mate.

Then through this night numb nightmare of trysts,
Made in the half darkness of mad hard cold twist’s,
Rest the heaving masses that writhe with cold fist’s.
It’s so hard to see beyond this savage spectral scene,
Where in the gyres, screaming souls beg for achene.
Yet all is not lost; for against the rising of the flame,
Where the bitter words rage from tongues that flay,
the endless edge of ever-night is now becoming day.
And there rises -in creative hands- a branding light;
That shapes anew ballet for this old soul’s delight.

It is the way of things that this madrigal’s concourse,
Is shown that such tragic blight as being so continual;
For this is the now notion of our human state eternal.
Instead, let’s shed off this over-used garb that grasps,
And all the bad warring worries that claws and clasps.
Let’s find ourselves anew, lets rest in nature’s  space;
For rich is this sacred song, whose words grants spice.
For only then will we so find her face and the lack of vice.  
So to life! And our life’s muscle! Let the eternal flower find
It’s sacred space, delicately placed and eternally entwined!