It's elemental

This is not my Magnus Opus.

The philosopher's stone is still unturned,

my mixes uncombined.

Black earth in the crucible,

black chaos in the kerotakis,

black magic in the sky -

not the storms of Cronus,

the clouds still gravid with thunderstones.

 

The elements march in time,

hydrogen helium lithium beryllium,

a stuck song, prefrontally played.

White noise in the mind,

white light in the flame,

white feathers on my tongue -

not the feathers of Thoth,

the spell still stuck in my throat

 

I hang from the rudiments of my craft,

hooked on the serpent-staff

above the laboratory table.

Yellow stains on the wall,

yellow streaks on my coat,

yellow fever in the blood -

not the fires of Vulcan,

the crucible still stony cold.

 

Bread to body, wine to blood,

I eat I drink I stay alive,

here in hiding I smelt iron from ore.

Red god in metal,

red war in the desert,

red eye in the sky -

not the of eye of Horus,

who looks the other way.