We, the children of the midnight morn,
watched in horror the dismemberment of dawn.
a pleasing pleasure to see;
It was a kind of aesthetic cruelty.
By the blanket of dusk, she lay disfigured,
Bleeding out, her brilliance all but withered.
Till noon, she’d held her breath,
her swords raised high to conquer death.
But weary, she turned, lost in a losing reverie,
to a heady feast of fantasy.
By then, we were gone, resting,
while ballads of bards sang of dreams unblessing.
until shreds of her essence unravelled,
mingling with banners where triumphs are battled.
And at long last emerged, the vicarious conqueror,
A muse of poets, a dreamer, an explorer.
Nightfall's bleeding blade, in darkness it stood,
sweated the blood of the lady-dawn they had slain and subdued.
This was his reign now, with caprice to bestow—
a cover of solace and a haunting tableau—
For all the artists who were and those yet to be.
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