a pinhole in the roof

Temples of the God distorted by the glare.
Waiting at a rainy day whistle stop for the moon to beam through.
A moment in an art gallery contorted with reality.

The possibilities giving me the willies as well as something to thrill me.
Funny compassion never became a fashion when negotiating treaties.
Must be fear of going hungry hunkered down and armed like an engangered species in the Amazon,
In the genes.
Whether evolving or running into a problem that can't be solved is yet to be seen.
It's causing the generalized anxiety that had a hold on Edgar Alan Poe.
It put that glint of power in the eye of the first guy to try explosives.
Keeping it all clinical in order to keep the formula straight, and so branded civilized.

And then a feeling of coming out of isolation,
sending the tip of the yin under the nadir of the yang,
from sun worship to soul worship,
to a kind of polar integration that vibrates life.
Making contact with a vagueness that vibrates ebullience.
Trying to articulate both fate and non-fate uncrated in a room full of precious metals with light coming in through a pinhole in the roof.