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~ By Courtesy of Others ~



The moon weeps at our madness.
He comes with the jangling of beads,
The clicking of charms,
The tying of knots,
The whisper of secrets.
He is silence, and the crashing roar of its waters.
He is midnight intoxication,

Cold heat locked in alabaster,
Ever enticing to the touch.
He is temptation and desire,
Aching hunger and the promise of its sating.
He is the tug at the heart
Awash in loneliness.
He is the weight in the belly
Consumed by grief.
He consoles.
He has sorrowed.
He survives.
It is His wyrd:
To see. To know. To sorrow. To remember;
And sometimes in remembering
To find sweetness.

I think His gentleness has been learned.
There is steel behind the carnival maks He wears.
No One could do what He does otherwise.
He is one of the Mighty Ones, our Elder,
Their Elder too, though the Gods I think forget
In Their maneuverings.
His only madness is that He does not surrender
To the despair of His position.

Galina Krasskova 

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