Obscene

Obscene

Sometimes I feel obscene:

indecent. lewd. offensive.

Because I can't go unseen.

Somewhere along the line

I broke the dimmer switch

ripped the dial from the wall

and started to shine.

See,

this little light of mine

has never been so little.

It's obscene because

I refuse to hide it.

I refuse to cover it up.

Because this light is a fire from gods,

a fire called love.

And the love of gods is

indecent, lewd, offensive,

painfully bright,

and hard to ignore.

I'm not a burning bush

because this voice is my own,

but sometimes the words are inspired

and I feel consumed to speak

truths bigger than myself.

Dawning

Dawning

May Erato bless these words:

I am a child of Eos.

A bastard of the morning,

with warm-tinted fingers

I rise from the womb of the horizon.

A herald of the day, I brandish my colors

from mountaintops and flat expanses alike.

I am the settled orange
peeking from the liminal folds of my mother's dress,
standing with a sentry's patience
while pink and purple

ascend the heavenly ladder

to breach Nyx's encompassing grey,

and make way for Hemera in her shifting chiton of blue.

The four stallions of Lord Helios

pull His golden chariot o'er my spinal track,

leading the Helionic parade westward once again;
the consequences of Phaeton's trial continued.

I am sunrise, the final gleaming remembrance

of sword-fire in the east,

my only guide to follow the mourning star,

that last solitary beacon, once fallen,

now fading in the brilliance of the coming light.