Ellipses
The gyre in me rends reason apart,
a spinning tunnel where illusion flashes loudly.
Scenes of abandon whip around
as I hold my hands against my ears.
A vision from Yeats’ nightmares takes hold:
debutantes tread in hellion ellipses
mirroring the wayward motions of the Earth
bending towards unknown aspirations.
In the sky, a haloed cross
stretches towards the West
and footmen greet it with white banners.
A drummer strikes his reveille.
All the cities cry out in relief
expecting the end of tribulation.
But only whirring machines answer them
and many prophets parade in the square.
I feel the gyre move within me,
spinning truth or tale I cannot figure.
For every age a doomsayer
who recalls a past to become the future.