In the silvery branches of the old birch tree,
I watch the moon rising- with a similar old feeling.
It's waning like us & with it's morbid softness
I wonder if it's making a mockery of me.
As if it knows; a smirk within it's wicked glow.
Reminding me no perfect circle may be cast.
Before golden Aphrodite will
have lassoed in her catch.
Jealous of the love humans can accomplish;
knowing her own wiles all but diminish.
In the transcendent form - from which humans flow.
Knowing real love; Our hearts bleeding, is our only show.
Of but of some of the vague brutality of LovE our kind knows.
Still we court Love and Evol the same,
our nourishment of pain our real bane.
But the ambrosia that keeps us alive.
Mere Mortals so hungry for the lies.
That will make us, too- Gods
for that single moment
that we truly join souls.
Completing our torment.
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