The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Qumranian

Earth is but a geode of
torn open crannies that make
good hollows to nest or quest
for shimmering delicacies as
titans slumber only to wake
and relieve themselves with a quake 
of golden veins spilt amidst 
the crackling of quartz 
and crumble of feldspars.

Yet the intrepid spectacles
of wandering visitors may settle
upon humbler clay stuffed
with fatted-calf vellum scrawls 
hate-hacked for their ascetic
secrets that dared to hide from
modernity, jewels of ritualistic
perseverating of a tradition
desperate to remain crystalline.
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