Six Moons Of Abramelin Poem by Barry Van Asten

I am called:
The times of destruction,
By awaiting star-manifold seers.
The room lay in never-ending
Procession, from half-world shades
Intent on preserving their disjointed
Sphere, with the tiresome trappings
Of being.

In a blue light that replaces living,
Are replicas of idols: gods,
All for seeing; worshipping,
On the tatty icon box.

Eyes -
Yellow and time-swelled, slowly
Scanning the transfigured air
Beyond the Thoth-enamoured night,
Seek a kindred spirit to rage
Intricate rhythms upon...

He took his ceremonial robes
And went into the dawn -
I never saw him again.
Just that vanishing solar blaze
With the moon conjoined in his eyes.