The Secrets of Man

Poetry... There's no way to expain it. I think it's just meant to be read and pondered.

They are of broken glass
Their windows are like doors,
And their doors,
Caverns.
Over them my mountains grow,
Pearly whites
Sinking themselves into the dark blue blood
Of too many gods.

They echo through the wild
To cool the obsidian streams that slip
Into this sanguine river
that drips over these cliffs of red.

It is here they have come.
They have trecked throught the darkness.
And, in the light,
Their reflections finally show.