XII. The Pilgrimage of the Tongue
His descent was a slow, entropic slide,
Through screes of syntax and through drifts of puns;
The splendor of the summit sought to hide
Behind the screen of secondary suns.
He passed the Sphinx, now but a heap of grit,
The Bibliotheca, a mere mound of mold;
His mind, once by a cosmic lightning lit,
Struggled to keep its grasp upon the gold.
He was a vessel leaking liquid light,
A jar of stars cracked by the journey’s end;
Returning to the kingdom of the night,
Where broken meanings have no power to mend.
But in his palm, a single pebble lay—
A shard of truth he’d carry to the day.
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