How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover while all alone.
How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent his gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose, I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling triumph of my surface's relief is from breathless sandy ovation beneath, for before my baron plains were slain and put to sleep, they braved the great inferno winning solar armor in golden fleece, for who can brave my extremes,
When my axix turns from cold still darkness to fusion heat,
But now is my region of my silver repose, no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power, the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood, and on my stare, intense solar flare, watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,
I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause can't bear to sit, to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit, to be mercurial is my theater caused by applause, my temple's pale light of long dead stars. It is the sadness of a fire that will never start--my annual Parthenon in short lived geminid sparks.