A poem
The earth clutches her jealously
Holds her tainted splendour to herself
The illicit lover who must be gone by dawn
She entangles her golden aura
Into herself
She pours the warm spools over herself and emerges…?
What?
Pure?
The reluctant lover who must break before day
Will be replaced by softer pleasures
Regretfully leaving the earth with the jealous moon
And she waits…
She creeps and infiltrates into life,
Into town, into hearts, into minds
She idles and swindles and dotes and adores
She is thrust-worthy but not trust-worthy
Impassioned but mad in her decadent broken state
Glorified is she? Not nearly enough
Prayers to whom we may refer to the “pale, stricken” moon
But I see you, O sun,
O waiting sun for the dying moon
I feel your flow and your self-satisfaction
And I know…ah…I know too well the clouds
I wait for you
The warmth, the life, the sun
Until you are not afraid or ashamed
Any more.
