Exoteric Weave Poem by Lydia Thacker

Death, you intimate nightmare apparition,
you cast us forth into galactic night,
extricate us from the unrelenting slavery
of our mortal toil

The wind of your tempest blows to torment
the weak, helpless tendrils of life we abandon,
those left prostrate and alone
with the urgent cutting of our silver thread

We surrender ourselves to the succulent white light,
that phosphorescent sphere, to which you guide us,
perhaps finding symbiosis with the father,
perhaps cast again into the budding amber flower
that is feeble fetal flesh

Docile creatures we are, made squeamish
by the harrowing spectre which chooses to offer
both the catastrophic, unforgiving burial pyre
and the succor of a whimsical interstellar domicile,
when, cradle to the fire, we misuse our own exoteric weave.