Somnifères for the Egregor: A Nocturne in the Key of Images and Sacred Exhaustion

"The bells have ceased their weeping" —

Only energetic larvae hum in the vestibules of memory.

Above us, "a dome of obtuse silence" ;

Below, a pianist—perhaps an angel, long deceased—

recites Rainer Maria Rilke on spiral staircases

that vanish into auric mist.

There is a chair of elm—occupied not by flesh

But by a frequency, borrowed.

A spirit impostor dons your voice,

wears your tie, mimics your seraphic face,

and speaks with the authority of an egregor

Who has read Martin Buber aloud in the kitchen

while rummaging through a fridge

for metaphorical bread.

I sip rooibos cinnamon tea infused with shadows.

You, perhaps, "smoke letters" —

Those forgotten promises inked with a Byzantine stylus

and sealed in the wax of clandestine vocations.

We walk separately,

Yet our footprints overlap in the sediment of dreams.

A translucent opera unfolds beneath our ribs.

Somewhere, a constellation of deer gathers

to witness the final match

between sacred longing and epistemic modesty.

In "The Museum of Unmade Beds",

Our doppelgängers polish their alter egos.

"We are no longer unique—

only selected",

As one selects a vintage handbag

to match a forgotten season.

Fruits decay on a decorative tray.

Their scent: amber and irony.

The still life stares back with contempt,

knowing it outlives us.

I once believed your face to be my guardian angel—

But now it flickers in the spectral bandwidth

of something vampiric,

wandering,

beautiful,

untrue.

The air itself trembles with apocalyptic indifference.

The sky turns the color of expired royalty—

Bourbon red, decadent and irrelevant.

Somewhere near the edge of a dream,

a dove collides with a corvine star,

And nothing changes.

There are books hanging in the air.

The papyrus of midnight spirals into itself.

The Whisperer's history remains untranslatable,

written in the breath of egos long since detached.

The table is set.

The porcelain is orthodox.

The serviettes—embroidered with Byzantine resignation—

await our final speech.

A small treatise on oratory

lies unopened between the salt and pepper shakers.

No one is hungry.

Only the sacred "remains unfed".

You wear a hat as though to suggest

You've survived something.

I believe you.

Somewhere between mock-sacred tourism

and authentic estrangement,

We became subjects of a floral ritual—

a theatre of divine absence.

The butterflies are conifers now.

And the angels have gone impersonal.

Still—

Separated by silence,

we prepare our nightly sedatives.

A draught for the egregor.

A dream for the rest of me.

I choose divine freedom —

In love with dignity.

October 21 -25, 2023

(Translated from the Original Text in Romanian)

Notes:

1. The phrase "The bells have ceased their weeping" refers to the bells falling silent, a common practice during certain religious observances, such as Good Friday. In a broader sense, it can also symbolize the end of a period of mourning or sadness, as suggested by the analogy to the different stages of life in Edgar Allan Poe's poem "The Bells". The phrase, inspired by his work, evokes a sense of finality and a shift in atmosphere, moving from sorrow to a different state.
2. The phrase "dwelling where silence engraves its sonnets on breath" is inspired by Walt Whitman, from his poem "Song of Myself". It suggests a place of deep quietude where even the most subtle sounds (like a breath) are imbued with significance, like the writing of a sonnet, a form traditionally associated with intense emotion and meaning.
3. The idea "Only the sacred remains unfed" is inspired by Gregory of Nazianzus' work.

Categories: philosophy, psychology, theology, sociology, politics, culture, education

Genre: Interdisciplinary poems

Reading Level: University