Today there is no volcano in my view.
No people. No path. No city. No humming.
Today, it’s just the fog that dissolves millions of worlds as it becomes more clear and solid, existing within me and without me.
The word that tells me that there is an external reality is no longer dead. The gate keeper is dead.
Who, then, punishes the archangels? Or do they exist inside me, in caravans?
Do they exist in a room, collecting dust and gathering the consciousness of little children?
Does the manticore fly? Does the unicorn travel on solar currents?
Is the man in the cross still there looking at me with those eyes, asking me if I know that I am there nailed to the same cross, to the same creation, unable to move and therefore only able to upscale or downscale?