When The Angels Bid Us Drive Nails With Their Feathers.

There are times,

Times that come down to the shudder of moments

When we have

                                    no choice

                                    but to hammer

                                    a nail

                                    into empty space

                                    and hope

                                    that it holds.

And this can be done

                        because

                        the elements of existence

                        don't move,

                        nor do they come from anywhere

                        yet they lead everywhere

                        extending in endless circles

                        that come to an imaginary point

                       

Meaning our aim must be good,

Meaning our aim must be true,

Must realize that what it is aimed at

Is nothing but emptiness
That our object is nothing

But ourselves, a transparency and a clarity

With which we pound nails into the world

With our heart to build an unending structure

Within our blood worthy of a god to live in

When faith is the hammer

And courage the nail

Times of cruciality when all that we are

Is compressed

Our life's foundation impacted like a bell struck on the hour

From every direction

And what we know as self an incomplete house

That needs to be expanded

When the angels fold their wings

And bid us attempt to drive nails with their feathers,

Dancing on the pinpoints of endless creation,

Bending our daedal wills to the vacuity, carpentering essence.