in that time
when you were lost to us
we waited for you –
there were those who said
she’s in a castle
others,
a spire of religion –
but some knew of your
caravan –
humble, yellowed –
and that you must be there –
and now you’re on the slope –
you hold in your hand
an orb –
you present it –
volcanic jet
heavy, glossed –
it’s a poem, a fiction, a wild art –
you’re a saviour of
creators,
the driven –
those who seem normal
but inside are not
