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I am of the Primrose Empire

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I am of the Primrose Empire

It is always dusk when the cycle resets, like waking inside the cold architecture of an unyielding, repetitive dream.

I walk the wet, cobbled veins of an ancient European city, passing beneath stone arches hung with heavy, lifeless flags, heraldry drained of colour, damp cloth clinging to wooden poles like dead skin. There is no breath of wind, only the low, humming pressure of an era turning in its sleep. I reach into an iron sconce and tear loose a torch of roaring, ragged fire. The flame casts jittering amber shadows against the masonry as I plunge down the same discrepant corridor, a passage that bends against geometry, narrowing and widening like an inhaling throat.

Past the broken gargoyles. Into the moss-eaten ruins of a seated angel whose stone wings have sheared away to jagged stubs. And onwards, deeper into the vaulted hush, drawn by an old, fevered pull toward the temple of the sacred primrose.

Here, in the forgotten transept of empire, stands the confessional: an ornate box of blackened, worm-eaten oak, infested with dry rot and dormant mould. It should reek of repentance, but it smells only of damp Devon earth and iron filings. I step inside, closing the latticed door on the dead city.

And there it rests upon the prie-dieu, waiting to be taken.

A single, immaculate yellow bloom. Small enough to crush between thumb and forefinger, yet dense with the crushing moral weight of a civilisation’s entire soul.

When my hand touches the cold, velvet stem, the stone city dissolves behind my eyes. The medieval spires bend, warping in a sudden furnace-blast of blinding light. The cobbles turn to red, sun-scorched ironstone. The lifeless flags snap into thin ribbons of dry spinifex and black bitumen under an inverted, forty-five-degree sky.

I feel the transformation take root in my marrow. I am no longer just a dreamer walking forgotten corridors. I am the vessel. I am the apostle of the Acclimatisation Society, sent forth into the screaming antipodal void to bend the raw, unscripted earth to the shape of Home.

I lift the pale coronal into the glare. In this frail woodland perennial lies the divine mandate, the seed of fences, parishes, and hedgerow order, chartered to conquer the silence. I am the empire's apex. I hold the sacred flower of morality.



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https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrxQKZRnAka3dliF7lp1-Ow






John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 


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Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the sponsor's written permission is prohibited.




Location: Pine Creek NT 0847, Australia

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