In The Midst

Ron Koppelberger

In The Midst

He gamboled in the mystery of wicked mystery and mediums of relative harmony, a realm, poor and a reflection of the remedy turned by smoke. He tapered the circle of powder to a shallow enticement of pledge, the promised dream and the blood of what he begged. A texture of his humanity and the difference between mists and veils of flow, by creations will and the trappings of what magic interprets, the alliance of what forever gave in degrees of wont.
He braced his hand and witnessed his agreement in blood and tight debts of profound wine, he bled at the insistence of the knife, the precision of the metal edge against yielding flesh. The powder begged the surgeon and drank in the substance of sacrifice. He saw Eden and paradise in nimbus illumination and tabloos of enduring saffron. The agent of boundaries that ransom the wheel of endless time and frayed truth; he cheated the drab walls and the order of garnished human existence for the rapt attentions of the harvest. It was a pursuit if fulfilling yowls and he sniffed his surroundings tasting the order of the grain. His paw throbbed in clockwork with the rhythm of his beating heart. He assumed allure in blossoms of desired shape, shadow and howling affected custom.
The wolf had ascended and gratified the milk of innermost reflection. Saffron and wheat, golden, primal, pure. He guzzled the breath of clean air and moved west to the favor of god and destiny, the destiny of a cause and a moment given only to those who guard the promise of heavens unleashed. The wolf would find his charge and the way of the land, the fortune of what wants the dawn and the eternal cycle of man and, perhaps angels, even so….disguised as wolves.