The moon, up and about
when time hit its note
pale and abstruse he stood
his demeanor, wise and kingly.
The Sun in his chariot,
golden and glowing, smiled down
on his nine minions, for now.
everything was happy and glorious
so near he stands now,
swelling on his own fodder.
to act paladin, and yet that
look, savage and baleful
for without the cloth
on our mother’s bosom,
the yin unbalanced, he flares
his ire, and his life, lurks.
the existence itself, an infant
for now he isn’t pervert enough
but surely, we have misunderstood
for our father, isn’t a bloody cheat.
is it all a fabric woven before?
seemingly incapable of adjustments?
oh please do answer,
the reason of the system.
– is my contribution to, Thursday Poets Rally Week 27