Beast at the Bottom

Here lies the beast

At the bottom
Of the tightest round
Where eternal shades
Lay in wintery lament yet
Hiding not
In the womb of Gaia,
With his order of evil claw-
Pitchfork piercing 
Tar laden ass,
But instead amongst the features
Of thy reflection
In a silent mirror that is
The gates of slumber.
 
That threshold
Of thin lids 
Where heliotropic 
Plutonian shores
Try to match the 
Paramnesia 
Wrought in the cosmos
Of amaranthine 
Nebulas sands
Hissing with the salt 
From the eternal oceans,
Sifting through the fragile hourglass
Until our time is up and
We surrender our mortal coil
With a quick sundering shatter.
 
Yet we still have our relationship 
With the sublime, beautiful 
Composures 
Made only by the 
Soft argent flute
Of a small song bird
That is bellowing Lacrimosa 
To the rising watercolor sun.
Much like two tender
Butterfly lovers
Gently caressing silken pennon
On top of a bulbous perennial
Mixing, merging astral dusts
From lunar flights
Of such amorous fancy.
 
Such simplicities define
The magnum opus 
Of divine creation,
Common everyday practice
Of perfect artistry,
Allure
In coppices where secreted
Alters are built 
For the kingdom that is
Femininity. A vast realm
Of man's redemption 
Where dreams become
As real as the flesh
That bears it. 
That this is the reality
Of the transcending spheres
Called love and beauty
Yet here too, is the rub
The duality of men
And the imperfection
Of God 
When he made all of this.
 
Now we must contend 
With the beast of the tightest round
While realizing our own
Deep desires. 
This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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