Ekphrasis


A point, sharp as any razor, carves out its place in the open air. The obsidian edges gleam with holy knowledge as it waits for its time with bated breath. Its surface is adorned with writhing, serpentine form that curl their way around each other and up towards the ornate handle. Each line hewn into smooth stone, each careful, loving notch coalesces into a mesmerizing pattern that whispers of secrets unspoken, thrice repeated. 
Sacred geometry, the amalgamation of angle and form.
He stands colossal, though his stature is slight.
Atop this chiseled tower sits a face thrice repeated, eyes wide and mouths forever frozen in a twisted grimace of his dark blessing.
Wrath.
Joy.
Peace.
The three scream out into space, and in the minute expressions of his face there is little difference.
 As fearsome Cerberus guards over the Stygian realm, so does this sacred man preside over the realm of his children with tempestuous abandon. His material body was forged with the power of focused concentration, and through it he directs his powers into the earth.
And so, he makes himself known.
His hair curls around his jowls and atop his regal head with all the majesty of a shining diadem.     A single pearl, 
 a low hanging fruit, 
on a single ear,
proclaims his eternal sovereignty.
How he watches, 
O blessed protector, 
from his place atop a mighty blade. 
His bearing forces attention, demands reverence, and whispers to the mind. 
He speaks of silence, of a raucous noise yet unknown in the waking world.
Of protection.
Of destruction.
His energy is wrathful, yet his eyes gleam with reverential madness. His head bedecked with fiery curls, his forehead emblazoned with a jewel like the stars in the heavens, he promises wonders beyond prophecy with mother of pearl teeth. 
Through the planes of the blade, thrice repeated, he pierces with the sharpness of his soul.
He 
weeps
  in
glorious
triumph.

For no soul can pierce his blade. 

(Ritual Dagger, Tibet, 14th century, ebony, ivory with pigment, 3/23/19)

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