Shall I gather the liquid centuries into my body

and renounce these petty rules

as but the artificial stepping stones to grace

who is now less than genius

now less than


weather-beaten, lying on the skies,

grave or granted. Shall I

transcend these fools to riches

that do not wear,

for they are far above

the rains and winds, far

even above their gods

tried and untrue on thrones.


I am that daemonic light

painting the gates of glory

with blood furious and eternal,

the chaos of the ancient world

and more.


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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020


BC, Canada