For long the antique coffer
lay in the mist
for reasons unknown,
silently in the quist
deaf to the chimes
across the vast abyss
who took it out of the Grand Cist?
and made visible in the middle
of the mysterious abandoned xyst,
sadist stockist Or Tanist of Celtic Chieftan
Or Maurists,long skirted hooded
Praying for mercy’Was he a Septembrist?
Or a Decembrist, an activist? Or a terrorist?
Scattered in the raw,tattered in dress
countenance thin straw like on the chin
in action horrid or some may think,
What tempests rage and crash
the skirted edge, rise in grandeur
waltzing harmonious overtures in
celestial spheres like a thousand
playing synchronised, lutinists
Ah! to what scales may humans
ascend or descend farthest from
Good Glory and Grace’
Mirror Mirror’ can ye tell All?
What or Who is The Human?
Realist idealist or alchemist
or if like some-an existentialist?