Zayin

Odie O'Dool hath been a fool, soaked in drool he dreamt of jewels

One gem pulsed deep beneath the sod — the shackle's root, a buried rod

And round his ankle, cold and tight, the chain of doubt eclipsed his sight

Above him spun the Prophecy O — a perfect ring that would not slow

He reached to grab — it turned and fled, and filled his heart with fear and dread

So he sat still, and watched it gleam — it shimmered truths between the seams

It cut through wind, through smoke, through thought — but never stayed when blindly sought

He whispered, "If I only knew…" — the O hung low, and passed straight through

It sliced a thread that bound his knee — and suddenly, his soul could see

The chain was gone, not by his grip — but by a glance, a mind equipped

He stood, the peg still in the field — the rod of fate no longer sealed

The shack lay split, its pieces thin — the severed lie, the truth within

He limped toward the shack of glass — where prayers were pulled through time and mass

The gravity well inside the floor — drew every cry from rich and poor

And at its edge, the voice began — "these prayers are fuel for Orie's plan"

Odie beheld a swirl of light — the thoughts of men, both wrong and right

The Prophecy O spun near his brow — he pointed then, not asking how

The gem-thoughts split before his hand — the dark fell down, the good ones spanned

Back to the cave within his head — where crystal minds revive the dead

He didn't own the ring or flame — he only knew, and called by name

A severance not made in wrath — but born of love: the middle path

Beyond the sun, shone a supernal Ohr, the likes of which, Odie'd never felt before.