Lead in gOld

Circle Squared_small

Before the leaden clouds there was fire
that blazoned the sky from dark slumber,
so that purity flowed through each vessel
made golden in the crackling crucible —
for from the oceanic sludgy base,
life walks the stairs of transformation.

The alchemist seeks transformation,
where the phoenix rises like rainbow fire
from the lead ashes at the spinal base,
the primal snake coiled in slumber,
listless to the dissolving crucible.
The tin-surfaced waters of the vessel:

the pregnant dragon sleeps in the vessel,
the chthonic soul awaits transformation,
daybreak by the dark iron crucible,
journey of all dark souls across fire
that filters dregs from earthly slumber
when two doves wing from a windy base.

Salty flats hold the unfolded base,
the copper heart beats; now the vessel
holds yin and yang, no longer in slumber,
but embraced in a transformation.
The moist darkness eclipses the fire
as the hero faces the crucible,

the dank chemistry lab crucible.
Lost in the magnum opus where base
elements pass under tongues of fire
that chant spells over a brewing vessel,
single-minded on transformation:
old. Alone. Decrepit in slumber.

Quicksilver words resonate through slumber
as the silver moon lights the crucible.
Vapor shifts to stone transformation;
the peacock tail fans across the base,
then the red stone congeals in the vessel:
the magus boards the chariot of fire.

Roused from slumber, the base hero
faces the crucible: a vessel quest
for transformation from darkness to fire.

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