Where lies the foundation of my youth?
Where lives the fountain of my truth?
In didactic circles of my schooling?
In fearful squares that are thwart with fooling?
How can I know our Moon? She doesn't give
Even in these rational times that I do live,
An ounce of human reason in her pale blue beams;
She pounces upon the season of my lofty-hued dreams.
I yearn for her ambience, silken fine,
Beyond my thought, between my mind,
Behind my eyes, sweet ambrosia sought.
She is silver hued, yet I am flesh-dom wrought.
It is no surprise, that She hardens no soul,
She is silent, rolling crescent, celestial.
Arch-queen of the many planes and places,
Drops light to form alchemical veins and vases.
Though She can stir terror, when fear is ripe,
She can also grow bliss, in the embrace of night.
She, the Goddess measures time,
She, the sickle, scryer, and rhyme.
She the ancient deepened crone,
She the music of the solar throne.
She the balance of the tides,
She the movements of the tribes.
She the blissful torrent of poetry,
She the grace of blessings given free.
She the druidess of lore,
She the sage's eye, journeying more.
Sit with her and you will see,
What she gives is ever free;
Veiled deep, in richness, history.
Set apart from an island of rationality -
Of a world needing reasons' key.
Twirling lunar maiden in ecstasy,
Yet soft spoken in her blue-grey artistry.
Time, as her palette, imbue...
Where lives the fountain of my youth?
Where lies the foundation of my truth?
In spiralling circles of our Moon?
In the romance of Nature, ever true?