Gnostic Gnosh

Metanoia tonight.  Tomorrow begins a New Moon cycle of darkness and depth.  The Delphi priestess wears her robe and brings the foison to the masses.  A large wain delivers the sustenance for another year.  Fields of grain yielding.  A sun, a moon.  A passing thing.  What will they do when the Sun no longer delivers the wind and rain?  When the Sun no longer lights the moon?  Soleil.  She rides above the Piccadilly Circus.  She rides along King's Cross.  We no longer remember the dark green when it is lighted at the Cross Keys.  It's a Wheel, not a thing.  It is Medicine.  Wodwose.  I am ghosting the gunk food.  Not junk food.  All the gunk it leaves earns it's name.  And it's not just fast food.  Who would think the grains could no longer be mine?  I'm not allergic to wine.  And Dionysus has his ways.  At least the wine will sustain me during these days of wheat and barley, of rye and oat.  All the things I must deny.  Millet.  I need hydration.  I look to the water.  A Sagittarian dream of running cold.  I may try to hide in my PA Grand Canyon or the rocking boats off of Cornwall's ragged coastline.  Give me the night skies of Lapland.  I'll alight my Swedish torch.  Demiurge dine.  Gnosis brine.  The river Styx and a goddess Nyx.  Tonight, give night.  My Aeon Syzygies.  Ennoea, Charis, Sige.  Aletheia, Nous.  Travel mind.  Something to eat.  Another day.  The insides suddenly die down.  Like they are no longer dying.  They are living, breathing, digesting another day.  Whey.  Corn Mother.  I'll eat the words instead of the wheat.  Die down, the heat, the humidity.  Eat the food with water, the water in the food.  A drunken balter to the drums.  A little wine with the burning sage. I find myself suffering with uhtceare for the Sun and all that burns unattended.   In vino veritas.