So ominous & overwhelming.
It may mark triumph to erect your imperial grace, Arch. On that first day, when God let there be light and truth and beauty and all that jazz, he said – (you know) – “I triumph o’re this darkness, this watery, feminine void.” So said an architect beholding an urban void, reminiscing into the sprawling network of Renaissance grace. He erected the stone and curved the arch, a towering mass under which flow seas of absent-minded wanderers. Mortals, clinging to their power complex, shying at the awe of a large structure. The arch overpowers.
Oh really? – Dark, inviting chamber, bending towards each tethered auspice? – Really, God felt bored one day and sculpted the image in His head, a Paradise twice as idle. And in doing so, He arrogantly fashioned Himself into molded clay. Was He not aware of His blasphemy? And thus He bore Man, His higher self, a higher self always begging Lord, get me high, get me higher when all he has to do is walk beneath the arch, through the darkness, where forth he sprung.
See, one can never triumph o’re the towering arch; the eyes will only as much as gaze into its fleeting stature. Let God sit on His arch, a solemn existence of omniscient perch. There is power in entering the daunting chasm and feeling one’s way through and out again; a little darkness and a little light, if only to illuminate truth and beauty. And when the night begins to feel like suicide, and the sun rises over the hills for the next countless dawn, the soul, numbed in the pain of stillness, may desire to send back from whence it came, to exit into the mystery from which it birthed. Then the torn and weathered life, having wandered the earth, crossed empty rooms and noiseless bridges to still find no mirth, wishes only to close its eyes and send into stardust sleep.
After triumphing o’re the erection of life, momentum leads under the arch’s shaded oblivion, one final time, through the ease of slipping into the dark world of creation.