Mother

She is the armament of Heaven fair,

seeped in the mystery of fallen stars…

moons hold the scent of her white-golden hair,

swollen with the heat of red rising Mars.

Worlds unarmed by atmosphere do sink

into the fire of her eyes and pale lips…

human lives held on the ecstatic brink

of falling, poised against her fingertips.

Tendrils of stardust brush across her face,

eyes painted by some dark, celestial light…

her skin the pallid hues of skies disgrace,

flickering against the soft, moonlit night.

A world surrenders, uneasy in death…

and so her lips reveal a last, cold breath.