Through a looking glass darkly, a smoking mirror reveals great spires;
billowing pyres of ancient light.

Troughs and crests cast in endless cycles,
rippling a time bleached canopy of luminous fascicles in a sky apart.

A serpent of ethereal ash splits the milky wings of a white raven,
undulating in scintillons beyond time and ire,
hidden in plain sight.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 16th of Lexadian, in the year 11 AC.