NaPo 09 ~ Plane note

Plane note

Whereby Rik revels in free-association verse, in commemoration of the day one hundred and five years prior when, as instructed by his bride, Mr Crowley began the process of committing his Liber Legis unto the ink.

I am not your Pan, rather
     a shadow, mud-stained, thrust amid
        with new shoots sickly green,
         a weave of roots. I am not
        your shade - though if you wish
     it shall be done: each twitch
an echo of your arch, your bone.

I found a god enrocked;
     he called me, veins of silver
        strum by salts, a hand outheld
         to gather me, succour, snout
        to yielding sand. Indentures
     caught the brow mid-turn -
an echo of vats, basins; pots

These pipes - so cold they freeze
     my tune, each note a glob. Ice
        chimes; teardrop charms. Am I
         dead yet? Impress my bones,
        fill my light dents, wine stains;
     flame me. I am mists of shade -
I am your Pan: I echo your gloam.