The Black Sun

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: February 23, 2017

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Submitted: February 23, 2017



And I write like the child which never existed

Whom I forged out of aging despair,

And with the destitute conviction outside of a boy;

His skin is blemished by warm, bomb-shell wrinkles

And the dripping bowers droop like soft clay from his eyes.


The foetus wrapped in original thoughts of death

Hums to all but that gentle beat in the uncoloured sky,

The still virginities still play the led strings of that harp

Left by a mother which will be seeked for youth’s eternity;

The father will be unkown until death. 


He is neither me, or my Son

But I have his dull wisdom

Of done things left undone;

At the shore he repents deceptions of crimson

That turn the rivers into ink, the palm, the Sun.


Multitudes of forgotten thought gives the waves of the Sea a shroud

And I bask in those recitals, drowning in the shrouded memories of childhood;

Multitudes of sombre pastels, he rejects the ‘normality’ of the clouds

And the answer is the gospel of stangers, untaught in the dripping of blood;

Multitudes and reflections lie still and the stubborn seekers scream aloud.


Decay is impulsive within its planned reason,

Delicacy is no longer soft, clay is hardened unto the air

And the nails fall but perserve the sly baptism of the Sun;

Those blinded by their own descent bow to the flare,

Lives within the prophecy, abondened by the shaded Son!


A Golden chest, all light shun

I will rise, I will rise as the Black Sun!

But only will I wake and shine when the visions

Of all people, of all life, have been enamoured;

Past dreary storms and cloudy white, only through the void of eyes

Will I find the reason why this Black Sun cries.

© Copyright 2018 Manx. All rights reserved.

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