those who had entered the Temple in the East, emerged
by way of The Night Clinic
with bodies of no more use
one senses a conglomerate of flesh
floating past the votive room
where hundreds, morphing into thousands of candles
burned before the Icon
lighting the path to current portals
above the black throne, next to my surgical resting bed
the singular meteor of faces and heads, pauses to wait
anatomical configurations are uncertain
could the multiple heads be sharing one brain?
what is the meaning of a face facing sky?
or looking south?
or downcast like a dispirited martyr?
what of those basic colour palettes?
black and red and royal gold?
and the tendrils
dangling and floating from missing necks like a jellyfish deep in iceless gravity
they said nothing, those mouths and hardly did they gaze at my sleeping body
as if uninitiated
as if waiting for the enlivening
the head of faces remain suspended, like a drone, mute, without expression
drifting like a planet in a yet to be awakened orbit
perhaps, it waits for my voice, a true command or sacred sound, a multi key to unidoor
perhaps it exists, for now, fully formed, as a watcher, brimming with stored power, poised at the edges of sentience, ready to project the first vision, ready to utter the first name of a new and omnipresent aeon
#oneiricnovel #irvingpaulpereira #dailywriting2016