The Asymptotic Recessional

The horses breathe a fire of violet light, Unfettered from the rhythm of the clock. The grid of lights is drowning in the night, A fossil hidden in the mountain shelf. The suite is shedding every mask they wore, To gallop toward the unwritten shore. The jester's bells are silent in the wind, The cat is now a page of indigo. The story that the messengers have pinned, Is fading with the embers' dying glow. The paralyzed roads are left beneath the heel, As we forget the way that mortals feel. We leave the Euclidean laws behind, To find the peace that meridians cannot bind. Behold the garden where the echoes sleep! Beyond the reach of every cruel sun! The silence is a promise we will keep— Until the final reckoning is done! The manuscript is breathing on its own, A fossil recovered from the fire's mouth. We stand upon a bridge of erased light, Between the frozen north and velvet south. The horizon is a line we have erased, A map of nothing, perfectly embraced. Behold the garden... Beyond the reach... The silence is...