“You bring me the Sun and Moon…” By A Chief Among Sinners.

You bring me the Sun and Moon at your pale weary palms,
Your tilted wrists glinted with dew drops of sweat,
You hold the Sun, exerting faint balmy breaths of gold on your right hand,
And you grasp the pale white- lit rippling silver pool iris of the Moon on your left,
You took the glistening bronze celestial orbs from their faded folds of the silk threaded heavens,
And you ask me now in the sweetness of all my mirth and the thirsted drops of all my grief,
As now the frozen ice trickled water current of the wind, as the harsh blind breeze, Brushes upon the brims of my slender fingers,
And I am pressed tightly with those cold shivering bumps,
As you ask me now, ” Why love the hot burning Sun, that shrivels the grass on heated stone?” “Why love the rippling pale blunt Moon, that cowards its white face in the passing month?”
And I tell you, “I don’t know, I don’t know,” Don’t ask me anymore, for the more I see, the further I roam, and I will find my downfall,
As that of prideful vain great Rome, and those red horse hair plumed gold helmed Centurions
Now the ruins of their mighty gold palace embroidered with milk white pearls, And glinted fogged lilac moonstones,
Are but ashes, ashes, and the more you ask me, the more I see, the more I hear,
And I find myself a step further from my feathered velvet wings hemmed with silver threads of silk, I find myself closer to the flickering heaving red and orange flames of my wrath,
Dispersing pale ashen smoke from the flames’ thin etched black lips,
And soon if I leave, I find myself in powdered gray ashes, I walk to the eternal gentle pale blue bay, hilted by blades of dew glinted green sage and thyme,
And as the honey tainted limestone rocks and ground grains of gold sand are washed,
By the weaving snow linen laced rippled rigid paced waves, I see but a ill corrupted shriveled gnawing weed, with punctured steaming wounds,
And as I turn my eyes pass the crippled weak biting dandelion flower, I find but a blush sugar glazed sparkled blooming rose, broken white glistening salt on her pink petals, Blown by the soft now crisp wind,
And then the weed tells me, “Why do you love a bloom of thorns who will pierce your heart?”
And the rose wringed its crown of flushed wood red petals to me, “Why do you love a withered sick weed, that chokes your garden of sage and thyme?”
With all this they told me, with all their bitter cruel stabbing proclamations, of frozen chill wind,
In all my sweet perfumed mirth and thirsted aching drops of grief,
They brought my eyes to a snapped wilted porcelain white lily unable to bloom in song under the soft blue evening,
Gashed with sinking thick burgundy red blood dripping from the leaves because of the thorns of a rose,
And the rasping breathless sleeping bloom because of the dandelion weed,
Then I told the rose and weed, “I don’t know, I don’t know,”
And of all this, I found myself gazing at the breathless sleeping ashen Ruins of Greece, The once washed white swirled cloud columns, dark and tattered,
The bruised silent olive black trees now frail and naked with broken course skin,
Every green gold leaf fallen from the branched limbs,
Where the leaking gleaming fountains of sun dried brick,
Now drained of the soft rippling raging sky brimmed waters,
It all fell in gatherings of shattered twinkling stone,
For they stood in front of reflecting looking glasses and sowed their pride as a yearly harvest of rye,
And the wind rolling from the ocean’s waves pressed to me shivering bumps that shook on my pale flesh,
For I too would be ashes, crippled ashes,
Nothing more, because every moment I will find my downfall staring at me with an ill- ravished soul,
And at hand a glassed diamond studded blade, to make my fearful weeping heart bleed of its frozen river,
And then all for I hear, for all I see, for all I know, I keep walking to my blue gilded pale tragic sorrow, for it to reap of me in the Autumn tinted day I fall,
And then I will be further away, from this berry tainted gold garden which God has for me,
And I will be closer to the dancing flames of my own burning wrath,
Closer to my ashen pale blue veined punctured body, an ill corrupted death of myself, So don’t ask me no more, please, not anymore, I heard them strum a wooden oak Renaissance lute, stitched with strings of wrenched lamb
Where then, I found a dancing gathering of nymphs and satyrs in a wisteria wood, Singing a hymn to their false thundering Jove,
But I tell you, with their blank unknowing songs and untrue glorified praise, I felt the tinkling notes of laughter, this melody that mends all those broken bones and bleeding flesh,
Though as I left from the nymphs and satyrs with a sweet twisted cornflower blue hyacinth at their lips, I could feel myself fade into the roads of growing Babylon,
With their high golden burning citadels embed with berths of wrinkled ivy, I wonder, what fortress do I have for my own self?
What blocked high mighty stones do I have built to protect this city I will lose to the fires of my own wrath?
If I had a graying castle that stood between me and all else,
That kept me deaf and blind, as a cherished gentle Mother, from the long aching moans of thunder,
And the raging deep waves of the ocean sea,
Where I could stay by my eternal bay of sage and thyme,
Then I wouldn’t be ash, I wouldn’t be further from the cries of velvet white feathered doves,
But I’ll have no citadel one day, nothing any more, I came to the hanging gardens that clothed the skin of a ziggurat,
As I saw brown firs and dark seeded pink fleshed plums,
Where twisted knotted flaked green leafs of plump red grapes grew up the gold palace walls, I found a deep wine red lavender colored, rough white celled pomegranate tree, And I grasped out to the fruit as a lion with a golden mane and bronze fur with tremoring paws slept,
The animal was breathless in a hollow sleep and as I brought the fruit to my lips, I went out of my own will to have myself broken and fallen,
For then I couldn’t hide my own skin with garments sown by golden veined fig leaves, For then, I would be my own rotting pile of burned dark ashes, ashes, I would be on my own wooden Trojan Horse to the fires of my wrath and pride,
I found myself once more, down by the bay of sage and thyme,
As the rigid paced ocean washed my toes in velvet linen lace,
And as I sat on this bed of heated grained gold bronze sand, hilted all around by blades of tall green grass,
A whispering cold faded ghost of rippling sun- drenched dust, asked me with a cruel running voice, “Why be here by the sands that sear you numb at the fingers?”
And then the jealous brittle berths of flaxen sand washed by the cornflower blue ocean, Asked me too, “Why do you want to rest and corrupt away to dust?”
And I told this ghost and the glistening glass heated shattered rock, “I don’t know, I don’t know,”
In all my sweet bloomed mirth and pained thirsted drops of grief, I come from my own cracked ground deserts and moaning tremoring seas alone,
But only if I could come by to a frozen lifeless blue numb iced river bank,
And clasp the velvet lace of snow in the shape of my palms,
And gently caress my eyes, where I would rather fall blind, I would rather come and have the sound drums of my ears be bruised and pained, to fall deaf,
If I could not see the fields of sweet sunshine flowers and hear the tinkling birdsongs,
It would be nothing, Because I could be like those foolish nymphs and satyrs dancing to the music of a strummed lute,
I wouldn’t be drunken in all this madness pressed freshly by the wine of red grapes, Again, in my delicate lamb fleeced mirth and thirsted glinted drops of grief,
As the Moon rose as a pale blue white- lit gazing eye,
A velvet snow lace feathered curved necked swan, with a slender black edged painted beak, Swam on the surface of the pulling steel gray ocean sea, glistening as a rippling silver silk cloth,
And the sorrowful bird of but bruised and horrid song asked me, “Why carry a raven at your staff, If they are but beastly and eat the good crop all year round?”
Then an ink drawn winged crow, with skinny sharpened talons, and agile thin pepper beaded eyes,
Flew above its, feathers pushing upon the air of the cruel cold wind, “Why stare at a swan with an astonished eye,
If when they sing it sounds as of a moaning man who is dying?”
And I looked at the two soulful birds who wondered of me, and the way my frozen river has not shattered,
And I told them too, “I don’t know, I don’t know,”
For all heard, all I see, and all I know, is the gray fogged tarnish on my pale skin,
They ask of questions that must be told to someone who has lost their wealth that surpassed of Midas,
Someone, if not careful, can become but dark grains of ash,
Someone further from their garden of fruit, closer to the flames of their wrath,
So please, don’t ask me anymore, don’t tell me anything else,
For then, I wouldn’t have to grief in my glassed drops of tears for when I step further out, To the burning heaving sparking flames of my pride and anger, all my wrath but a cold Winter fire,
For I don’t want to fall to dark powdered grains of ash,
One day the moonlight won’t lace to the pale wrists of my hands, I won’t be able to feel the sweet scent of lilac perfume, for then it would be the fragrance of musk pale smoke, And with the more I see, the more I hear, the more I know, I come to my downfall in tarnished ruins,
But all of you still come to me with stars and flames at your palms.

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