THE LAKE PALACE OF ENDYMION
OR THE GIFT OF HYPNOS










of my own being split,
and there before and after me,
myself again and again, each an aspect
that grants no passage without acknowledgement,
that will cast me to my knees and toes before one and all.

and here the day will come,
soon to test my strength of purpose,
challenge my faith in Truth and Reason
that stand within the cavern's hall,
and promise from my soaring spirit.

so here's the sticking post.

when told the dangers of goodness,
or when clankoring voices doubt the lute's calling,
and crack the last fine china cup,
the spirit stays, hovering within my breast,
and stretching beyond the worlds i know,
to those none understand;

when threatened by uncertainty of purpose,
or held at bay by frozen caution,
and falls the last fine crystal goblet,
the spirit stays, its warmth a glow about me,
and being in all places and the Void,
is mapped upon my hand.

So, I will set this up...
and here it is come that voices chortle in backgrounds,
as souls seek touch but cannot and will not,
and in the voices, twists and turns of sarcasm
for my ears, of course, and my final reach to heaven, this way.
and then it is over.....the contact broken.......a disambiguation, again.........so heaves my leaden heart this moonless night,
till dawn brings love, anew with light.

I will not tell Veristes of this madness,
for it has warned against this folly,
restraining its mighty hunger for the Truth,
to let this part live out romantic suffering,
and come to rest before its rocky fortress....

And then, i am so small, before a grain of sand
that was the craft so long ago,
that brought it to this world,
and made a man of me.........

The die is cast, the numbers roll.
And before the toss, the 3 and one
are shown......then fall upon upon the table.
I look away, the truth already apparent,
my destiny yet upon the felt and leather......
I am dead for a while..........
the pain is in the ink before you.........

enigma and veristes do not suffer
and outside is within..... the others do not matter
for by ingenuinity they will prosper
as their hearts do not beat
though to dreams they answer
in cryptic words of understanding..........

But I am real as Pain that sets apart
the Vision from the Man,
and leaves the Man to suffer.......


Thus I will out the calumny
made for justice by malintent,
and go within to listen, silent,
for signs of goodness
to lead me from deception
to the hopes that have been strown......






The Art of the Lute Player by Jacob Heringman