Whose death-black
Horse. And magic,

The way it leads itself
Back into the skein
Of its dream.

And from out of its spirit
The black night
From which it derives.

It wants to return,
Hiding back

Inside the intricate silk folds
The mind makes
Of its detritus, its

Excess matter
That stays behind,

Within the mind’s night.
The world in which
There is no world,

This time in which
There is no time.

This Möbius strip,
This infinite circuit
Of death that is also
Birth. 

What memory we cannot fathom
Remains forever

In the dead zone
Of the mind’s forever.

There is no ending
To this ending.
This never ending
History,

In which there is no
History.