Spirit flight

the harrowing sound of grit as it
grinds its way through the narrow neck
of the hourglass;
blind and pitiless time digs its own
grave -

from a solitary dune, slowly sinking
in the murmuring ripples of quicksand, waits
like a young lapwing, the spirit for his sublime
opportunity -

gliding over the eddying thermals his wingspan
carries him alongside the languishing mirages
drawn upon a vacant canvas.

though

he renounces all enchantments
and the burning flush in the groins
which would asphyxiate him in
the dust bath of his impermanence.

indeed

his calling lies beyond the gloss,
past the dreaded entrails of entropy,
there about where the north star beckons,
and the horizon dances with fire.