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By The Moon
1 Quickly I must write while the moon crackles red, write before the fire extinguishes, closing the portals of self, of soul which now gape open. This I would write to you, my children, while the moon's muted symphony aches pensively, drawing ink to pen -- write because I must, for children should know their parents' journeys (Whether for their sakes or ours, I do not know) 2 Write: I remember nightly sessions spent at my father's table. There, under the guise of tutoring me in the game of kings, my father passed to me the lessons of his life. Later, as an early teenager, my parents' hands cloaked me in a knowing moon's light and placed my heart forever along the way of the judoka, its techniques and its dichotomy -- That stillness and motion are one, that gentleness prevails. I recall as a young man, keeping vigil by my mother's bed. The moon bathed her withered form in silent respect as I learned from her the last lessons she had to give: the immortality of a parent's love and the dignity of faith. She bequeathed to me on her final night, her rosary with which I now pray and the hoarsh reminder that all Heaven does, it does for love This was a lesson which, from time to time, I have had difficulty remembering. Years later, beneath a grotesque and hellish parody of the moon's benevolent light, what few vestiges I had retained from my youth dissolved as I passed from novice to soldier full on a cold war battlefield too unknown to require forgetting. In time, however, the distortions passed, and it was with a far happier moon (an old friend returned) that I courted your mother and first swam in the warm seas of her love that I yet happily float in. And you, our first, when you were born, a tiny being dwarfed by the machines and tubes which constituted your world then, it was the moon which paternally guided and hurried my nightly treks to visit, to hold and cuddle, and by which I observed again the miraculous strength of a mother's love. It was the moon which knowingly carried my prayers (the first in far too many years) to Heaven, making of me a beggar in the night. And that too, my celestrial companion whispered to me, was a thing long overdue. I counted in the millions my tears of joy, of thankfulness, when you other two were birth full and whole. I am no less the supplicant now as each evening -- your windows silhouetted by the moon's alabaster notes -- I lean over your reposing forms, each of you three in turn, and ask for Heaven's blessing upon you as we have been blessed with you. 3 To you, my children, I commend the night and the moon's broad scope. Write what you will, what you must. Write honestly, for the moon will accept nothing else upon its thin translucent parchment. Write quickly when you do, for like life the paper is sometimes brittle and carries a temperment of its own. And whether you praise or curse, be forewarned: The night's orb is an instrument of Heaven, prodding as well as listening and relaying all written upon it to its source.
"Damn", you're thinking about now, "about time this thing ended." For those of you who did, I certainly appreciate your sticking with it. This poem is quite a departure from my normal styling - far more verbose, and possibly too verbose for a medium like the Link. But what better place than the Link to try it out, as it is an experiment for me. Thanks again.
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