The fountain was a signpost IV

The world spirit rides saddleless
the weary horse beggared by vast journeys.
Clad in nothing but tattered parchments
and symbols of the new regime
scattered about the surface
of his glistening body
basking in the brilliant sun
and the primeval shine of crowds.
Among them lurks the town seducer
a pamphleteer and recusant,
clasping his manuscript
The Topology of Chaotic Undulations and the Riddle of Schein.
He shouts,
“the fountain is our signpost,”
yet now he must break loose.
Another nail quietly inserted.

The fountain was a signpost III

He no longer perceives, senses … intuits, he figures – the anatomy of the world as such, stripped of content, texture, meat and fibre.

A humbling gesture, akin to witnessing from a distance the crashing waves of shifting tectonic plates, Mythological paradigms grinding,

And the ridges froth a granular golden ocean, like a blanket of sand, or the alchemist’s vortical cloak, which, laden with the burden of perspective, from above twines cellular particles into an interstellar network of white noise.

The fountain was a signpost II

Night fails to provide disguise, half-drenched in moonlit showers. Pursuing the one good eye, guided by opalescent rays reflected in the diaphanous bowl of immanence.

He ventures a thought:
What is the hidden difference between a flow and a step, a stream carrying a hapless leaf, and frantic feet leaping through winds? One cannot step in the same river twice, they claim, still, the one same river remains as such, countlessly so, if only in the nominal stillness of the word. 

And one step too far will have the poor soul swallowed.
As the rivers branch off in murky folds of watery pathways, perhaps they again reunite in the one - a holed basin. 

And the poor soul is milled through the centre, sheer excrement in a numinous vase, and on the other side, bursts forth as a fountain – a mushrooming plume of vaporous leaves.Facts become translucid, mere phantoms.
 

The fountain was a signpost I

His story, much like man’s History, is not stirred by septic decries, and neither do voices fall gently on its ears, just as a tree is brimming with ancient power and the Alpine north winds with their claps and blows, now from this side, now from that, strive vehemently to uproot it, and with its great branches strewn round the shaken trunk, the tree itself clings to the crags, and as high as it is carried by the zephyrs of the air toward the ever-dark, so deep its roots descend into the Underworld. Much the same, his desire is stormed by assailant voices from this direction and that, from every place and non-space, and while sorrow stirs his vast being, his mind remains unmoved and each tear falls useless.