By Roy Dean Doughty
From A Monument of Wonders
12/24/00 www.amonumentofwonders.com

We dream, in our mountainous accumulations
Of kindling, of a cauldron of ultimate fat,
Of a throne raised high with the skulls of our enemies,
Of a knowledge derived from sacrificial lambs,
Of a permanent bliss enclosed by a circle of stones.

These dreams weave scorching labyrinths of fire
With filaments of violence stretched as skin
Across an eye blind to the infinite. The stone
Is in the bag. The power is in the title.
The warmth of the hearth is in the death of another.
The dream is a nightmare of conflicted longings.

But there is a second, a brighter dream within us,
Not scattered through the hills as warring fires,
But centered, like a light within a jewel.
This is the I that calms us in its pool,
Ints infinite diamond cleansing every victim.

We slept in many bodies, but wake in one.

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