Emblazoned images allure,
Give semblance of a fake azure;
An afterlife – those Hades Shades
And para-Disa everglades
For 'ghosts' are but our futures told
Through whispered poetry of old,
That in its 'nows' reveals our pasts;
Mythmakes our future everlasts.
The eight is but the mirrored three,
The beating wing of symmetry,
The ampersand, the sealed knot,
The folded S, the curve-joined dot.
When octo-numbered, isoprene
Paints fruit bright red with lycopene,
As half-made H evolved to be
The alpha-numbered eighth-placed He.
Like spiders' legs – and those of Horse,
Ridden by godhead of the Norse,
That Odin, Woden, Santa-Claus
Dressed brown, then green, then red of course.
This syllabled iambic line,
This way that Man creates Divine
And god(s) of magic, poetry,
Wisdom and war and prophecy.
The Wanderer has travelled far -
His name mutates like twinkling Star,
Divinely shining Man’s desire -
But which burns brighter, glass or fire?