Vacuous
this tale of wiles cannot be placed to a whence
for nothingness was still at war with somethingness
and was so very truly long ago and the everything was only light
like the deserts of the mind or you soul after a holiday
for to be in this desolation of sorts were I and the other breaths
and the high god of the pagan sort
and we told every story until wise time told us we had told ourselves before then
then we were left to our devices
which at that time was to span moments of silent inventing new increments
but keeping score for others less than ourselves to forget and boast inaccurately
to such the boredom finally came after our hearts which many no longer have
were we, and the gods, and the spirits, and the keeper
and upon one day, or perhaps any other clasp of passing
the high god became bored and sought to make the tacit things
so the souls began to make the colors
and the spirits began to make the scents
and the keeper made notice of these things
while we the breaths made mention of what needed mentioning in our secrets
when we knew we were done we slept and perhaps forgot to forget
and in our efforts made the first dream among many others
and those walked about lesser than us but much more than living
excited became a new notion of the only thing missing to the high god
as quickly as he became ambivalent he became determined to create the wind
the only substance of which had not been made
as for making the breeze the lustrous force that it is today
was well beyond our make
but the elder god sought to sake it for the living
so he made a box of silver only old ones could touch
swiftly planned he did to put much inside to make the wind rescind
he opened the box and it gasped for air to heal the poison
in doing so it devoured a dream
with such consumption an idea came to the god that more would make the
wind
wind
as our experience had brought us to make our creations
the box did well to try and swallow its lid
but when removed
it consumed the primordial water and ancient soil and the lid closed again
the righteous god moved close to open the harrowing cover
and was sucked into the box of creation
i must admit i laughed a great deal the entirety of waiting
from stifling misconception to the appalling delay
the god eventually hammered and thundered and mortared until the top slid
my friend the god at that point crawled from the side of the box
as if it were much deeper than the appearance
with a fist clenched he fought the accursed vacuum and the clutching lid
and took to his escape with something precious in his grasp
it glowed as we had never seen and as had never been
it began to permeate the environ and soon from contact made the
old soil a new fertile earth, and made the old poisons a new fervent water
the aura could though not be held
and dissipated into the purity of existence
the woes of turmoil sent for throes would never rest assured
but ever after waiting there the lack of wind is soon to be remedied
overpowering expectation the lid held tightly shut
and half of us would not repeal its lock
but our force we doled to more cadence than caliber
to remove the lid and give it to the keeper
while the earth was pulled into the box
while the water was pulled into the box
while we were pulled into the box
until all had entered
inside the box was many of the dark things that even nothingness fears
and the sight of thunder and the emotion of lighting brightest of fires
and the vexation of the hellish box turned to consume the vacuity
to devour the emptiness that surrounded it of light and magic
still opposite to the depths of the great nothingness
and i suppose at a guess that is ruptured
it certainly consumed all of the known universe
and sent us all in a blast to rapture what will be that wasn't
the power of windily force annihilated more than half our ranks
and we fled and escaped and evaded
to consume the wit of breadth we moved from it a time greater than had been existence
and evolved our traits as we had forced our fates to lift the lid previously
as then at most is how of many more that died
but a circumstance at best luckily fated by wings
and they who sings the fiery songs and when the tumult ceased
the wind carried warmth and creased the ghosts of fire
which burdens life much less than frozen time