The Storied Mask
The vast kaleidoscoped cosmos
On black velvet background
Galactic star swirls,
One great masked Chagall
We turn our stained-glass faces…
Above us in infinite light years,
Visioning vivid rose and royal blue,
So covered the costumed earth,
Weeping colors of bowed rain,
We turn our stained-glass faces…
In this troubled world's lastness,
From the very beforeness,
Out from the mummering
Great cosmic Blast,
We turn our stained-glass faces…
A hooded violet trope
That hurtled us across time
Into the endless question
Before the troubled asking;
We turn our stained-glass faces…
Our distraught disguises
Cascading down,
Away from the pierced harshness
Of wintered survival rage
To stare at the flaming sun,
We turn our stained-glass faces…
Gleaming through, unmerry
Makers, not mindfully blind
But behind metaphor's
Vivid translucent veil,
We turn our stained-glass faces…
Seeing the One True Face,
Stained with the sorrow
Of ever-becoming visually real,
Ruby, emerald, and sapphire,
Yes, we turn our stained-glass faces
To one finally white endless strobe,
Encompassing all despaired weeping
In the brightness of transcendent becoming,
Unlimited strophe of the cosmic Masque
Of all Dancing.
by Daniel Wilcox
First published in different form in Mad Swirl;
later in the poetry collection, selah river
