The Moiety of the Sun

Crystal light reflects in a shimmering pool, hovering just below the stars which
blink sleep out of their eyes onto soft breathing below.
Those that hide all day come out to play, dancing through the dappled moonlight,
blowing dusty trails that waking stars leave behind.

Prancing with gaiety, demigods rejuvenate after long drinks of
Nectar and Ambrosia, brought forth in celebration of a centennial victory.
A paean hums from within satyrs who bow down before the spiraling clouds.

Figures begin to emerge wearing gold crowns of swan birds upon hair the color of rich honey.
Their eyes flicker faintly with the flame of Tartarus that has long since been lost to mortal memories,
yet not to those of the old, youthful rulers.
Icy steps of diamond vapor descend from the clouds, taking form beneath
royal ruby slippers and elegant toes upon pompous feet.

These are the gods of Greeks and Romans, the power invested in them to rule the
skies and waters and the in between of both worlds, haunting human dreams.
So many people fall blind, as countless do when threatened by the
empowering persona deities cast as shadows against a pale sun rising.

Occasionally the pale sun leaves a waxy trail across the dazzling blue sky
before setting in the burning west.
The sunshine candle melts down to the wick until even that licks the evening farewell.
A few waxy drops dribble onto unsacred grounds where immortal feet have yet to glide.

Naïve caterpillars, careless and confused, wriggle along a leaf
like only dumb mortal caterpillars can.
Unaware of glistening sunshine wax dangling on the end of their victimized leaves, the thick
creatures trudge on continuing to quaff until turgid, stretching the limits of their
viscous, scratchy skin.

Eventually the day comes when metamorphism must take hold of a
hungry, beating heart.
With great pertinacity, weaving a basket for its body to take a fortnight’s nap, it forms the
chrysalis, bonding waxy beauty to nature’s tremulous hand.
The candle rises in the east and sets in the west, casting fading breaths onto the
petite, pulsing pillow, dangling on the end of a bush.

The day arrives and flaky achievement peels away to reveal a sonorous serenade,
written from the depths of the earth’s core, and reverberating throughout the crisp morning air,
yet not sung about those gods who ruled so grandly above a human world.

Caterpillars, all around the world, looked to the skies and melted with their beacon of hope,
reborn with wings to fly.
Anyone who looked high, past the candle sun and the sleepy stars and the dappled moonlight,
could grow wings; they need only try.

So now, here we are, listening to stories be told of sleepy stars and
nocturnal creatures awakening.
We open our ears to the tale of glimmering gods in alluring attire.
We tilt our heads to drink in the news of caterpillars transforming into hopeful butterflies,
blending with the rising sun.
And we wonder—which is our moiety?


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