Photo by alexandros Giannakakis on Unsplash

The second coming is a cycle of waking up probe
Until you don’t, of reaching to an innate hope,
Of winging on its astonishing workabilities in sum;
A daily glide of turning our faces to the unwearied sun
Pushing it down the rimming horizon of our eyes
While darkness stretches out, hush murmuring wise
With your heart, which flows out old rumors of verbs
Of new schemes exciting the puppeteer nerves
To create visions of drinking the sun until transfigured