The lone star above
Thy pale hands of fate,
You are a wanderer in the lush of eidolons that dim
The blushes of carnations that grace the moonlit wind.
Gift of God, be it so,
Dost the hopes present death
In the amended sorrows that
Be born from above?
On the tilts of something strange
Within the content star dream’s gaze
That printed, rather, swilled the day
Where love never parts far beyond where it dwells.
Believe me, folly spirit,
Your youth came from moonlit lands
That specked beyond the midriff
And rife the heart so lonely?
Where bloodied hymns could blind our souls
That with moans could be the fallen ocean
In the dead of night, cold. Lost as death,
And shivered from shadowed dew—alone.
That was the childhood eden, alone,
And betake for this I’ve brought
And betake for what I’ve sought,
One so with the exult of time—
That be beyond the death of mumbling wrath
That brought forgotten vernal vow and sin!
Why thus be consumed with natural time
With sea of sons that betwixt sheer might
Which brought the ground an emblem ridden
That glimmered with the gaze of a dark twilight.
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