Chants from other side of the Moon #5

In tremor of fingers  Man’s fear
is unsheathed, leaving breadcrumbs
of immortality rarely eaten

A Man washing his face resembles
the pebble deep sacrilege of ancient
cups who viscerally stored blood and
wine, yet couldn’t hold a single wind-grasp
of soul, a history of leafs chanting for

Sadness of Men deserves to
be in museums of wrinkles,
unholy dust becomes holy
within its borders

But, even at night when Moon
is far to not spare Man from burning
of his birthright, rise of Moonborn,
Man never falters

Touched by senses animals
share, snakes of doubt nimbly
mingle in the trenches of grass to be,
but flowers falter not,
no Men shall be sad, when
he learns of light, Moon and spring

Of all Men, lord is one who
in his inner river meets King
Chandra, he is the one who
knows art for art is the temple of Man
and King Chandra is his


Michael of Moon

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