World One

A desert

a storm of stars

rides a wind in one hand,

a sanctuary for a broken fire

thrown only in the other-

for days yet unused.

A sky rises from the tide

clutching the seas,

one in each hand,

two eyes, sparkling stones

heavy as the ground. 

An empty heart, sunken

from the fleeing sky-

it waits, splinters

into clouds of quiet green

to flood the golden sand-

the fading shores of war. 

This is the golden eye,

fallen

when heaven became hell;

it knew every star,

every root of ice,

every heart of fire.