the mescaline fable

wake me up from this torpor,
to meet the rising mist
                of the north.
searching blind,
for the jester of stars
that mourns over where
                the end meets us all.
this highway has sered
                through the scorching desert;
building these sky-cities
of ancient warriors n’
                fair maidens still in waiting.
and beneath;
                the unstable sky is webbed
                            by homing aircrafts.
while every few years
history gets caught
n’ is pickled into books.