Before the dawn, a secondary light—
Not of the sun, but of the marrow’s heat.
I swam against the tide, a rhythmic fight,
To find where form and phantom finally meet.
If shadows are but ghosts of Plato’s mind,
And birdsong in the dark is just a trace,
What is the tether that I sought to find
Within that salt-streaked, solitary place?
The pilgrimage is not a path of miles,
But a dissolving of the triple-veil.
The energy rearranges, then unifies,
Until the archetypes themselves grow pale.
I stand now at the circle’s closing turn,
No longer watching shadows on the wall.
The graduation is the depth of the one
Who finds the forever in the small.
The tide has turned.
The mystery is known.
The light you saw was
always just your own.
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