Shadow is real, more a matter of substance than these men fain would allow. But who are they to know or say or affirm what should mark my way, for my dark i s brighter than their day, my night sweeter than their illusive milk and honey.
What men of god hail as Sun is weak, ignoble when in the audience of my Moon. Her darkness is a richness and brightness supernal that envelopes the universe i n a glory that cannot but effortlessly shame their vaunted new light into oblivion.
It has begun ...
I thought, truly, that the nightmare had once and for always evaporated,
Wafting helplessly into the emerging sunlight of a new day.
No, not on this day.
Perhaps not even tomorrow, as the hopelessness and despair of night for day
Settles into the darkening landscape of my barren soul.
Black is my vision of a moon dreamt silver and lush with overtures of rich romance,
That orb used to finding my love and me in fond embrace ...
No more, no more, for Love is dead and so, too, my plea for redemption before
The face of a merciful goddess of light ...
Turned bad, turned black, turned away from love....
She captivates this tired and lonely man, holding me tenderly in her ever tightening but welcome thrall. However much I pretend to resist - this weak effort an outward manifestation made merely to satisfy the ecclesiastical demands of little divines - I cave to her amatory attentions. Supernal love revives what was once declared dead and gloriously reawakens in decrepitude youth's cravings long ago gone dormant.
The man fashioned diminutive in body, in mind - but not in heart - by Nature's own impartial hand, has risen in slow but deliberate motion under the darkened but love-giving rays of a black Moon. Her reign is irresistible and dominates a devoted corps of men who aver that their new allegiance is not without cost to them who have relinquished the safe but empty and ordinary earthbound affections.
The Queen of Heaven promises an eternity of true love fulfilled and none ever again gone unrequited.
The apotheosis begins ...
I love your writing. It's one of the only reasons I come here anymore... looking for something beautifully haunting to read. I don't always comment on your threads but when I come here I always look for them.
As I peered last night upon La Luna's silvery face, I was thinking of you, dear Miss Ann! I've missed you ...
Thank you for friendship and being the very first to love, along with me, the faces/phases of the metaphoric Moon. You've been singularly instrumental in abetting my attachment to the Supernal One....
Coco, you're just great. I went to Midnight Mass at Holy Trinity Episcopal Church tonight. I thought of you and our common heritage. Have you been since you've left? It's so beautiful. Magical and mysterious.
Thank you, dear FlyingHighNow, for your words of particular and special meaning to me.
Nearby is the oldest in the entire region of our once common place of worship. In its presence one goes back in time. I wish I could return there but current ties to the religion I have led my family into do not allow ...
Pray, dear lady, for us.
I lost some of my family, but I've just gotten one back. He has finished Crisis of Conscience and says he is awake. The Episcopal Church never hurt any of us. Hey, couldn't you sneak away and go to mass somewhere else? Our church is a healthy church. You should come back.
I'm happy for you re: your awakened relative. Some day I hope to walk through those doors. Will pm you if I can find a link for the local edifice.
Looking out his studio's street-side window, Marcel squints as diminishing afternoon rays of a limping, hazy sun come slicing through half-opened blinds.
Some men, he had read [for none had ever declared this truth to the young writer personally], write in a darkened box of a room to fend off all possible distraction from the proper conception and development of their little tales. That, Marcel pondered, was too simplistic an accounting of how one's thoughts truly do go to paper. Whether wide open, whether wide shut, these eyes sense feelingly a concept or a vision that waits in the offing and begs to be reined in, harnessed, in order to be transformed into an off-center mystery of an otherwise commonplace affair.
Marcel awaits the moon should rise and blind him with love and longing through fully-opened blinds ...