Forget The Sun

The memorial to the saint, in the little park, quiet and seclided.
The faith I shared with her, the adorition I held for her purity,
has slipped away, lost in the night closing over me, old suns dead.
 I sit at the statues feet, feeling numb in a cool early Autumn day.
The wind is gentle, the leaves are just begining to change, all is well.
The proud saint, I once loved, is quiet in all my thoughts.
 A virgin, a pious peasant, a clean hearted maiden. The holy woman
even in plate mail and armor, even in the blood of an endless war.
An angel, not a girl, not broken and mad like one of us.
 Just another virgin dying young and violent, sanctified in death.
To be made a martyr and feminne perfected, to not know passion.
Too long I worshipped her, a penetand La Hire, but this day is not hers.
 Mad and wild and full of perversion and riled emotions, others truly live.
I have always been one, and trying to die for ghosts is for masochist fools.
Flesh, corrupted and holy, prision and paradise, is my true fate.
 I leave a coil and a medal at her feet, bid her adeiu, and change a season
as world prepares to sleep and forget the sun. Seasons pass and come again.
But some suns are never remembered, and some seasons gone for good.
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