Myth of Moon and Flight
Because I saw an ethereal being
that was and is and shall,
as in all the heavens dwell,
live eternal in grand life,
for in what else might his wings gorge themselves,
but the odd and everlasting death?
I seem to give an explanation for
already passed past events,
not defined through words but senses,
as I cannot word them yet.
How could my
lead tongue improve
a memory so lividly true,
how could my breaths, short, describe an
endlessness of sorts?
How, how, how, I howl all questions to the Moon,
but she feigns indifference now, hiding
soft behind the sun,
she weeps,
just as I wept,
watching the being step by step, she
sings the tune that we dance to,
she cries, and we ask
Why?
But then she lies,
and the shadows that she casts
not as trails but as the sea they part
our islands, one by one
to part our ways and split our hearts.
And we ask
Who?
Who are you,
being outcast from the Moon,
to have wings as birds that fly,
to have worms that crawl nearby,
Who are you?
We call them angels,
those with wings that we know not,
and even if we knew them how could we not?
As the oil sky drips its melted
fire, indigo aflame and lightened,
onto our heads giving us crowns,
do we not moan?
Do we not howl?
Because I saw an ethereal being,
and I knew not the answers
to disquiet contrasting critiques,
the view placed in the shadows, trees
swallowed by the bees,
moths eloped in the moonlight,
and yet I could see...
If worms eat birds will they still fly?