A Second Yuletide
Ecstatic moon, and a slumberous star, both did not know the earth could go that far. Yuletide came and with its Germanic designation, a Greek-named maiden became destined to an antithetical fame. Treasure and tragedy, she was but a theatrical play. Once her devotion and caution clash, her bridal altar can never be the same.
Later, that night, the star rebirthed a sphere, and the sphere knew exactly why she was here. She captured the cerise pink and the citrus gold and went to create spring. Wrens, starlings, and nightingales all vowed to sing to her. She shone, with her gown, and her royal ring.
Even the fallen transformed to angels, the falling re-ascended before landing. The ocean defeated the pirate without standing. The flood restored the wood, and the prophet claimed, ‘To kneel before your poetry, I would.’
Name your coins, I can never understand Judas, for I have found wealth in the sun. The poetry to my prose, your sonnets’ blood inside of me flows. The dove does not need a broken wing to befriend the crows.
And even your sight brings rhythm to my words, have you read the above? It’s getting absurd! You are a fountain of running intellect, a rose garden that never sheds, a holy palace that entreats to be read.
My angelic beauty, I am too proud of you that it is both cursive and Roman to deliver. Your spirit evokes the senses to quiver. Your pen narrates only for mortals’ flesh to shiver. Your presence is as narcotic as liquor.
Darling, you must not have had a past life, for I cannot imagine you as another. Your eyes, your heart, your smile are a one-galactic occurrence. The creator must have wept as he let you go, watching you rest your wings upon the cruel, cold earth. However, you always make it through. I adore you and shalt religiously memorize your flow, your wing pattern, and your dawn.
The fall of the moon
It is but a second Yuletide.
