When our paths cross

I owe a huge debt,

Pseudo Thomas.

Years on end you toiled,

and yet the flame never extinguished.

In your sealed retort

the living joined with the dead,

while I, oddly both

overdrawn and over nourished,

struggle to make mere charcoal.

It matters not.

More than fools gold,

you prepared instead

factoids of a different order –

a priceless new dawn.

I am the debt I owe.

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(For a long and wild journey into the imaginal: Von Franz’s Aurora Consergens and Jung’s Mysterium Coniunctionis.)