The Opal

By Morty Diamond

I think of the men, the horsemen
Their leather boots casting shadows on a stallion’s bloated belly
Pursed lips under powdered faces
The horsemen searching for the tallest spire with the opal eye sitting atop
shimmering and
haloed with stardust
that beacon of truth and redemption
dropping to his knees and leaving his body for isolate rapture
to find his own prophecy
in the tendrils only the opal may lay down for him

I think of a place
Where men, whose religion it is to feel eternally damned
Gather the air around them and bellow, and
wail for the finality of their unknown destination
marking time with the stamping of feet
the opal sitting atop the tallest spire has made him a marionette
for he cannot eat or drink without looking up at her to grant such a serenity


Those men whose eyes are buried in the folds of their forefathers
Searching for light as they journey
Over zealous, empty handed
Resolute in the face of injury or death
They do not know the end, cannot know the end
They feel blood in their ears
As the angels meander in their lace and curlers
waiting for these mortals to build stained glass beauty parlors


I am consumed by it myself
I am not far behind, my own wheels clacking on the cobblestones
Possessing me as it would thousands of years ago
A worshiper whose worship has left him wanton
I stroke back my hair in anticipation
Of my first look at the opal that has been guiding me for weeks
To her own eyes, and our own rapture