Rooms of amber, walls phantom azure bright,
livid limpid pools of fleeting half night,
that drown me in my swimming dolphin wave flight,
to pierce the veil, with second hands and second sight.
First is last somehow now, and real is common,
worship of transhumane and merely mammon.
Flashing particles burst and then cascade,
while spewing up from spinning target blade.
It's night fall glistening in the spinning hours,
and in this half way world the houri gather.
Their skirts rustle and then akimbo sway,
as they would never wear in manifest day.
Gather up the bits and pieces of their lives,
offering ephemeral ecstasy that some how survives.