Walking towards the spot to smoke the stick
to celebrate but since it darkens the pace quickens
storm is in sight
Seated the cigar is Torched after a smiling siren takes his selection
not espresso, too small too short, but cappuccino
She comes, cup and saucer clutched between sharp
talons, puts it down, he’s smoking and nods his thanks
Seared into sight is lanterns stirring up a spectacle of lights along the somber shoreline,
like supernovas exploding in the serene dark
or fireflies scintillating in the seductive woods
They flicker like delirious stop signs, and its sole solemn
witness is the scepter of spiraled sagacious leaves standing
erect between scarred serpentine fingers,
its tip scorching in flames like a samurai sword cursed
with a sorcerer’s fire spell,
embers somersaulting to the sides and soaring into the stormy sky,
there are no stars plastered to the onix ceiling of this sacred sarcophagus
Since Seth, or any other God, is not present to inscribe purpose or colors to this show
The Ashing Obelisk is tasked to steal the script, pulls the strings, smirking sardonically, its jester tears etched in the cherry scarlet circus of ash and brimstone.