The wanderer halted,

looking back at dreams,

as pure as snow,

for the tread of aureate-footed light

lay far behind,

still drowned in twilight's

stagnant purples,

toiling up even to the very threshold

of the heavens,

He heard the eagles hail the sun

Round the forsaken throne

of a nameless god,

until the morning's levin-colored ray

lightened the back of the fallen angel,

and he paused,

while over him ethereal glory glowed

rousing the dreaming colors

in the clouds

to give the sea its

immemorial green

and strike the towering cities

of their memories

into gold along the low horizon.

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Returning vision flowed,

power revived his ailing limbs,

and he sought to define

reality by ascertaining meaning

from the tellurian shapes and images

of dreams:

the effigies of men

and women dancing

before bonfires,

The noontide shapes of

devils in the clouds,

The meres that curve in the darkening

night towards a memory

of Pandemonium

and the chaos that birthed the stars.

Demon moons blaze paths

across the midnight sky:

The watch-fires of

the ever vigilant gaze

flame like fallen stars,

a eternal crown of gold

on a coveted horizon,

forever out of reach.