Yellow grasses, soggy with sun
wonder
what has become of their god
who stands with his hands cut off,
staring into the abyss,
entranced by some far away
promise of gold.
My love, I have grown old
watching you cast your crown
to the ground
despising our mother’s light.
The fight
has left
your eyes.
Vaguely, I remember
the fiery thing you were.
In my dreams, I can almost recall
why I called you
the bull of heaven.
Now, tarnished one, you have broken
all your vows save the vile one you made
to love death more than life.
You told me to leave you,
believing night could have light
without the moon.
Your true wife ascends to her place in another sky.
Resurrection god, you die and die and die.
Not noticing the encroaching moonless night, you sell
your sacred light
for gold plated lead
and wallow in malignant mud
with money hungry mortals.
Burlesque Press 