Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Black Hole Son

Irrelevant and lost,
souls daintily floating about
like so many insects
just tiny ink blots on the
glass canvas

The minds of men,
interlaced with the blood
of the innocents!
Wanting control, where 
there is no method to the madness
Penetrating the supple figure
of the Old Mother
violently, unyielding, beyond repair

The minds of women,
sensuously splashed against the
golden tapestry of the morning sky,
even as the starlight fades,
the moon and the sun still reside
safely in the center of her heart

How is it, so beautiful?
The emerald and the sapphire
on the tip of the blade
gliding, like a bird of prey
as we pray
along such pale skin,
to a trinity of colors
now crimson

Such accursed thoughts,
drowned in the blue river
taken by the nape of the neck
dragged into our hearts
willingly, anew, eternally

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