LESSER GODS

He reaches into the dark velvet sky,

draws out wonder,

in the palm of his hand,

The sun shines in clandestine chasm,

of juke box memories in Bala,

the remnants of dreams and such,

of conformity's ontological wait.

Between request and hope and monuments,

a sacred dance ensues.

Clandestine achievement,

ambient in the night sky,

of an eternal night,

made day by proximal fathoms,

surviving the nascent will,

of a surfeit channel,

pertaining to the auspices of the revealed,

curtailing the wherewithall,

of the average imagination.

His hands gesture to the destiny of stars,

ever more a function of persuasions,

ebbing in the flow of possibility,

incurred in the wrath of wraiths and lesser gods.