mercury lamp II

the imperfectly drawn circle by Human will become the pair of wings that conquer heaven.
the lost shaven bits of the colour pencil that drew it shall fill to brim the profound abyss.
the earth in between the sky and the underworld, the world of always foregathering.
submits to no defeat. for the sake to be whole
always seeking. I am. always seeking.
at the end, Human will never lose. for like the flower that withers,
again blooms,
and against its own fate of withering and blooming it
it must go under (to Hell). If I must one night fall!
and must sail, as petals upon river black through the underground tunnels of seeker's ink.
or as red mist across the mystified red caeser's doom and gloom (a scarlet fate)
or as foregathering leaves from Spring to Autumn, dichromatic, decorating the mundane with tranquil jubilation. till the loathing, wrestling and killing of flesh and spirit among leaves becoming itself a Song of Songs?
the imperfectly drawn circle, she drew herself a wing.
the lost pencil to the abyss, too she sought, jumping into God's Eternity's abyssal cleft.
and the angel of Mercury Lamp, neither above, nor below. 
till the water welling from the cloven sorrow to fill it to silent Joy's pond.

and the burning circle that is the Form of Human Heart, imperfect but terrible, invincible from every angle, to bring itself to immolation. 
resolution and End. 
"Lord, Lord, Lord.
I see you dwelling in things of monochrome, or dichrome.  
My heart is overjoyed to see you in omnipotence.
For thou art a fiction of my mind, my imagination.
And therefore it must be true, and shall conquer the world.
Arm me from shoulder to feet with the vibrations sent by
the night-moths and day-papilons. and disguise it twice with hues
black and white, red and white, black and white.
the world is my armor of always foregathering,
always seeking. I. I am always seeking.
For the Universe is the seeking I, who is I.
I who is seeking, O
I am seeking, Io.
Blood-shot Redness of the day, Io.
Black-stubbed Blackness of the night, Oi!
The flying bird, tarry not. Hurry.
Before the song of arrows reaches thee in cold iron, die!
Die, Bloodiness.
Die, Blackness.
Die di-formed things, greyness is but illness of sight.
Live as mist till thou joinst river evermore. as blood turns to scab.
Hereby is recorded the song of his lost singing, for Evermore
Lord. Lord. Lord.
Thou art the pencil that listens to my hand."

the imperfectly drawn circle by Human will become the pair of wings that conquer heaven. for circle is never split by being perfection, and therefore it can never fly against gravity through the shouldered sins one has chosen to shoulder themselves for the sake of lust for the heaven.