Doxology of the Gnostics
By Jerry Rea Ellis
We who mourned the death of the red planet,
And the passing of our own spirit culture,
As the lowlands flooded and the grasslands burned,
And the motherland was frozen in ice.
Hanging from precessional lilt,
Abraxas ruled glacial mountains sliding over our hopes.
While we hid in caves and painted on walls.
We Shemshu-Hor of orient are
Hina Te Fatou.
Hunted by demiurge down through cycles
Of star birth and star death.
Through the twelve divisions.
Yet we press in and out of time.
Et in Arcadia Ego.
We are subconscious drums, interstellar staccato.
An invitation to cross the Coptic Nile.
A way open to all, chosen by few.
As we slip through history, patiently.
Planting flowers at Renes le Chateau graves,
The Rex Deus are rippling waves.
Stellar Viracochas teaching within.
Yahweh winks and Yahweh grins.
And we notice the earth shudder beneath us,
Subtle changes in the wind.
In the name of Zep Tepi we smile
And keep our telescopes searching.
Searching the depths of the night sky.
Searching within ourselves.
Searching for the time when Sophia kisses Kali on the mouth.
So devout.
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