Of Muses And Other Ghosts
Trying To Do A God's Job
What love has made us do, beneath the moon,
on hills, where the tallest of the stars
fall upon those proud flowers,
that so deep hid us and our sins,
when the sheets seemed too far to resist,
I'd so often found them, in your hair, stars
tangled, or glued upon your cheek
and when everybody thought them to be freckles,
we'd so much laugh of them,
between the tall flowers,
that grew so close to the sky.
They're even closer now.
It's the time, for all the monsters I know,
to open the doors of heaven,
and set the blue sky free,
from the clouding of the gray.
And my son, a savager,
too misshaped to be loved by you,
or to wear the name of man,
a beast with a million thoughts
and wraped in gold armour,
dragging the moon after him
would not restrain the monsters
from reaching your naked feet.
Why are you so ashamed, of loving a man forever?
Is god really that much beautiful than me, the man?
What promises does he makes you,
to love him?
I'd so much like to know.
Maybe you'd love me again then,
even a bit would be fine.
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