The Writers' Circle

Under the pale blue soft skies
On white sanded sculpted shores
Where the birds cast their shadows
Amid decreasing days of summer lores.

Paths of never returning a thousand ages
Paths of ever occurring a thousand clefts
Cast out by wakeful gates of  sheltered eyes
In echoes and the silent sound of the foot steps.

Here in the time where the paths end
Amid laborious hells carried within oneself
Pivoted fingers in moth moulded stance
In ever widening circles of the fiery spells.

Knowledge of ignorance, knowledge of knowing
Knowledge of light, knowledge of dark sowing
Knowledge of deeds, knowledge of the unsaid
Knowledge of beginnings, knowledge of the ends.

And how should I know
And what should I hold?
When I am only a novice
In the complexities of my soul.