I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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My ghost preserves the gods bound by my breath,
The sun that roars our birth mourns not our death. 

Ageless born, of a green-eyed girl conceived.
I stood bipedal on her primal shore
And faced the first flood armed with nothing more
Than silence where a future's word would weave
The sentence I was handed down to serve. 
My virgin flesh was bolted to the bone,
Its hewn-from-porous-mountain marrow sewn
Between a grieving heart and sparking nerve
To siphon from my cells all trace of prayer. 
The sin assumed before the father spoke,
Blue-eyed and grave-drawn from the womb I broke
Upon the fired earth and cindered air.

The birthing moon halts heaven's hell-bound slide,
The anchored star directs my homeward stride. 

My child desired its years and not its youth. 
A heart designed for function over whim
And never filled but halfway from its brim
Would not be found philosophizing truth. 
This civilized redundancy I bred
Both spawned and spurned my greedy mind that scours
The congregation of the threatened hours
Who robe the roaming days in homespun thread,
Its sifter gripped in relic-raider's paws
To grub for gold in tears my Midas cried
For knowledge yet unknown nor earth-wise tied
By truth or love or antiquated laws. 

I know not when my esoteric mind
Denied itself the freedom to decide. 

My man abandoned to a faithless dream,
A luckless Sutter in a golden land
His nomad print pursued; the native hand
That threaded fate at once unstitched the seam. 
A devil's word had forked the rimer's tongue,
Dismissed the infant empire into dust,
Cocked pride toward an oracle of lust,
And quelled the place where love's first fever stung. 
A legend and its girl circle my bones,
Their dusty orbits trace a storied arc
From geneses that missed their author's mark
Through exodoi his distant manner honed. 

The anchored earth halts heaven's homeward stride, 
The dying star dictates my hell-bound slide. 

Ageless dead, to the green-eyed girl returned
Who sang and swathed my bones in birthing acts,
A skin to suit the construct of a wracked
And damned design that caused my spine to worm
No upright path from base to smoking nerve. 
The hope I hold is scalded in its cage
When, humbled by the lie that outlives age,
A want of light incites a path to swerve.
I lack the elemental tools to tell
The time of life and so must estimate
The sum of my souled cells that populate
The confluence of candle, book and bell. 

My ghost restores the gods bound in this death,
The sun that spoke the world preserves my breath.