Procession

In the palace of the sky,
a great, blue carpet has been laid,
bearing a procession of liveried, white ghosts
toward a throne of gold,
seating a king whose crown cannot be viewed.

The guests tumble anxiously, slowly,
rending their own fiber in their patient wait;
bumping without hurry, they hurry;
without substance, they present a picture
constant through every year of time.

Each morn the wan prince, donned in glory,
rustles his silken sheets of pink.
Gathering attendants far and wide
though his kingdom last but for a wink!

Yet: Do they look down at us, or up?
Are we their sky, reflections from a mirror in-between?
In which phantoms grasp at eternity
and learn that forms subsist not,
  only patterns,
  only essences that repeat their manifestation
    throughout the great, broad length of time.