Totem dances grip the heads of the frightened
Then pause and wait for a camera
To take away the sting and nature's perfect sound.
The wisdom of them, thos perfect things,
Formed from the very form of form,
Plato's nightmare ignored, have to be the best -
Beyond the dialectic and so very bad.
And so a host of the form springs anthems of old,
Leaving behind the uncertainty, helping out the lonely,
Supporting the weak and sleeping the disturbed,
But those perfect violins return
To hant that persistent connection -
The one that jabs on each rotation.
The dull thud which keeps their time
Does little to sooth, more to move
The waters in seaward flow.
The winds will blow, the flocks will go,
For even they know that the clock is ticking
Ancient clock, galactic pulse which
Brought us here, gave us a chance
And will ultimately remove our charred remains,
Is slowing down, taking a breath, a pendulum,
Reaching the top, preparing for the next slice,
Which is where we meet again.
Is this the watershed?