Out The Dark

A Ghazal

Flesh fresh out the dark domain, covet the dew that yearns past light.
Peach cheeked, swallowing stars all dawn, my eyes lightning, the last light.

Move the mass that is weighed for the flame, the desire spelled
out with rakes that remake the pain of being miscast light.

Make my people apple eyed, as their patriarch, I save them
from age, keep them eternal in the iconoclast light.

A black mirage twists the treeline black, escaping from winter,
now wait for spring's breeze to rebirth me into newcast light.

The gardeners who could not bear to leave their branches bare,
I plant them under the first morningstar, that outcast light.

Can I be fruitful in the gardens of my crucified palms?
A man is first keeper of his flesh, after, we cast light.

Brambles under apollonian dusk, thorns tear the tongues in
Golgotha's heaps, yet it's food of Thought which feeds aghast light.

Droughts swallow the draught drops of henbane, their spectral petals pull
primeval man from mania's wombs, the soul needs no steadfast light.

Scattered seeds, Promethean, bound to growth in soils that loathe the
fertile blessing, grow shadows in the cave, turn to vast light.

And I, the last son of Ádók, sink in oaths of becoming,
my gardens bisect me like a moon, to reflect past light.