The Bright And Morning Star

She bore him, nursed him upon her breast, used to sing him lullaby's, to make him sleep. She rocked him, woo'd him, coo'd him in his nest, then, solitaire, she'd hourly play and...cheat. She had a 'split', within her soul, you'd see a mile away, within a mirror. She healed the sick, raised the dead, and when the Pure Ones, wouldn't honor her, with place upon the Mayflower, she swam to this New Land...instead.

She had a babe in a manger, but denied it. Her hair would swim in a water pot, just to be rid. She came from generations of wisher's and will'rs, as well as his father had. Both sides living with power, humbly hidden away. What hath he? A few words to say, and...by God, they will be said.

The White salmon swam, and his grandmother owned..."He seems a strong one." Sam Hill stood, beside the river, where he left a thing, perhaps he thought might stand forever. Or till now...to mark the moon, to mark the sun...to mark the time remaining to us all...playing on the water. He hath seen and he hath known, and he hath knocked upon the doors that welcome will not open. He hath wearied of it all.

The seals, that were, are not so well sealed now. The secrets...he abhor's, as black crows pick at the breast of his true mother, where her bones, of stones, lay...where her ribs pierce through the darkness of deep forests, and his father cannot rest...in sky, for lies told here. Watch the weather...watch the fire...listen to the wind, whispering you, in tongue that only Holy Angel can transpire.

So, know...your time has come.You have wrecked or endeavored to wreck a sweet and sound and watered world in the dark dark sky, but you fail, for your shadow is not righteous, nor to heal. The sons and daughters of The Risen will make sure of this. Leave...now!

He love's his land. He love's his world, as was given from his father. He is sore to see her used so. When the words come, and the runes be in his hands, and they sing to him of many things...before his people, he will rise to bring you down, with mirror and staff, and the key of his power to open or close time...forever.

He love's his people. Harm them not. The power in Trinity will not save you, for it is not of you. Your blessings are blighted and damned lies, and the gnashing's of your teeth can be heard in the halls of the buried places, where you thought to save yourselves.

It is not to be. It is not to be. Go now, or meet the light you fear, in a bairn of one you could not control.

Requiem will be held for a soul, in a mass of the dead. She will not be judged as you had hoped, but stand again...whole; by the side of the boy she saved, for he knows of the powers that pressed her, and how she fought so.

For it has all gone round, and evil done for good, come to take its place. To sort what has gone down, that right be never wronged again, as time itself, affiliate of harm...slither off, to nevermore be found. When blessing be and Trinity, the Grail, the Rose, and he...The Bright and Morning Star.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: catholicexchange.com, Morning-Star