LEGIONARIUS SOMNIORUM

How often have

I, to You,

Whispered my

Silent dreams.

And they rose

Like incense,

Turned to coiling smoke

By the bone-chill

Of frosty experience.

And I knew not

If you had received them,

High upon your Golden Throne.

For my whispers remained

The same,

And my soul remained

Alone.

And if it be You who

Gave me these silent dreams,

Answer me.

Joseph me.

For I know not if my life be

The Cup-bearer,

Or Baker.

But I do know I am

Warrior.

And only in the thrashing and throes

Of combat

Do I feel peace.

And my fearful gaze,

Dim though it be,

Always alights in that kingdom,

That bastion of the east.

There I hear Your grandfatherly murmurings,

And see your heavy-browed gaze,

Downcast,

Like a wicker-basket amidst

A tempest of praise.

‘Warrior, Warrior,

What happened to the things that

I taught you?

What happened to the things that

I brought you?

What happened to the wings I

Put on you?

How could you let them fly

Off without you?’

And I see such dramas played,

Upon this frosty stage,

Upon this lofty height,

Throughout this fearful

Night.

Such heroism and

Such depravity,

Such virtue in

Humanity.

But also vice.

Oh but You know this.

I know this.

Ozymandias and Nimrod,

I know them.

Their crumbling edifices form

The foundations of

My soul.

So if it be You,

Receive my incense,

Impurely cast to the heavens.

Receive it with golden hands.

Send fire, and brimstone,

And hordes of locusts.

Send bolts of lighting

On which I may lean.

If it be You,

The Artisan,

The General,

The Grandfather,

The Maker,

The Un-maker,

The Judge,

The King.

Of all my

Silent dreams.