The fruit has ripened.
But it hangs high on the tree.
It will ripen further and die,
Slowly.
The sun will hit it hard.
The moon will not help at all.
The best thing for it to do is
Fall.
Birds may help it perhaps,
Maybe a strong breeze,
A god may help, if it says
Please.
Knowing providence though,
It’s more likely to hang and rot,
It’s one of those things that love just
Forgot.
It does look tasty and juicy,
But it’s so very, very high,
I might as well give up before I
Try.
He shimmered turquoise,
With an iridescent white,
Scales glistening, fins flaring,
Like an array of starlight.
From a small half-foot deep bowl
To one o’er a foot in height,
He journeyed through strange waters,
In almost surreal flight.
Now he lies, all cut and spent,
From human neglect and slight,
From hot to cold, cold to hot,
He loved to prove he could fight.
He shimmered, just days past, in a vast tank:
The Lord of All, sparkling amethyst delight –
He lies, chalk white, on his side, in a bowl,
But won’t go gentle into that good night.
Once again I find myself
Alone, in the arms of Night;
Where else could I be,
As the mighty Sun gears up to fight?
He governs the world
And every Law of the Land:
Hope must bend to Him
And Love must understand.
The Moon is the quiet Wife,
The stars are each a far-off Son;
Against the Sire who else can shine?
Before His Light each is made to fade or run.
The Sun burns.
He compels me to bend.
The moon soothes,
Even if She cannot defend.
Light cancels Dark –
Law and Order shine best;
But I am the Dark,
I am that Time of Rest.
Nature loves both equal:
Be it Moth or Butterfly,
It is free to choose Night or Day,
As your Time to Live or Die.
So I have walked in Dark,
I have not feared the Night,
I have loved the quiet Moon
And I have chosen not to fight.
You must be logged in to post a comment.