XI. The Gravity of the Vernacular
Yet even as he basked in solar grace,
The valley pulled with its terrestrial weight;
He felt the soft allure of time and place,
The heavy anchor of a mortal fate.
The "Word" within him began to calcify,
Into the leaden shapes of human speech;
The vast, unclouded reaches of the sky
Wandered beyond his visionary reach.
He took the first step down the obsidian stair,
Feeling the chill of common oxygen;
The static of the lower, thicker air
Began to cloud the "Now" and "There" and "Then."
The ghost of hunger and the sting of cold
Returned to claim the man who’d been so bold.
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