#nightconsumeslight

Whence unapologetically her heart had hove into the world and announced an arrival of hope to ascertain to try to answer

Why whirls the world so fast for me, opens honor onto the waste land, upbraids the Usher Eve and our lapses, when He the cursed tree drew from virgin soil and strife?

Enter the Homeric Eve: launching a sea of Hellenic ships ere the virgin bled for martial, nebula-dispersing winds.

Did you not detect the Earth oscillating only to woo you?

My hand hath meaning, for it toucheth thee. Before it never worthwhile were to hold, Your transcendental form which pleaseth me, But as my spirit grew wond'rous to behold,

Your meaning rouseth me from torpid life: Thus air was rock, thus mountains soft, And on my bed of stone I lay without a wife, And on my journeys I wouldst float aloft.

The pull of death I laugheth gone to thought, And lived and little thought that you would ever die. Your life or mine were not a penny ought, Should our two graves ever distant lie!

In rooms of opulent pearl that fairly gleamed, A pallour flushed his cheeks of coral colour, While at his feet a blissful envy screamed, Dressed in green, demanding golden succour.

Backlit by that eye that stared them a-ground, The years turned into seasons of spectation. The envy turned to bark without a sound, And plants turned scrutiny into gestation.

A statue of desire was regarded By plains of squeamish gratitude; the hope That with him stands entombed, by beauty warded, Remains beyond his marbled and chiseled scope.