One is a bedfellow, soft
One is a tempest
One is drowning
One shakes with late night chemical fever
‘How can you say to me, I am a King?’
Shakespeare asks this-
Every time each finds nirvana they weep for roads untraveled, children unborn, wives taken before time came, days un-lived.
Each time a drop of blue travels South in weathered hands
They call a name: creatress, animal, soul, basilisk.
You sing a song of Satet, as she cleaned that crazy river.
You sing a song of Leto, fading into dim mother light
You sing a song of Artemis, clinging to child face for safties unknown
There are four days to speak of in all of this.
Three are secret, and filled with spilled judgement
One is a birth and a death and a life in between. That day I will speak of-
On each day you said my name as it was the first name you ever spoke.
And on each day I closed my eyes to the Sun which I knew would set.
Hoping it never would.