The Temporal Yellow

THE TEMPORAL YELLOW
On John Barleycorn's hands, the mistress of love lies dead;
The dirty, packed slum of debt and poverty's brought upon Mary Sue;
And a god wielded his sword one last time for an inevitable loss.
The time when the autumn foliage was brushing on my face was when Earth first formed. Liquid rocks coagulate into one mass, shaping its form; water from foreign rocks crashes, washing the heat off; and life was dividing. Then came the mellifluous horror in the form of words that read: "So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them." But for another Earth, I could barely remember. Its gatsby, terror, and Moirai's embroidery that embroiled the beauty on the yellowness is shrouded in ethereal darkness.
I reminisced several memories while in the everlasting purgatory and grasped a water drop of a memory. It was when the smoke of few million lives hinted its presence to me. That was when I realized the stain on his breath was why I am here to begin with. A butterfly whose vicissitude nectar dropped on the delicate memory chained it.
So, I closed my eyes and wrote in an envelope, arbitrarily and angrily inking the paper:
I've been a luna for years, absolute years.
A luna in a doc's bay, entrapped in white.
A luna in the Lord Savior's bay, entrapped in greedy gold.
I've always been a luna, I know it.
Like you, and them, I don't know why.
The sudden Poe's poeticness on the paper intrigued me, like another author lent a helping hand. Truthfully, I never was intrigued by anything physical since Earth was formed. Now, the phantasmagoria accompanies me. At least, not for forever, for I'm off to the greater good and a darker dark.
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Author: SherlsF
Category:Tales
Category:Canons