Draft 3. The Venusian

[alonso ramoran]

Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite my remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.

Because my sky is a barren womb,
my only moon begotten was an image
that this shroud burned for, now burning for
the vanity of images.

Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness

that is frightening the green
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.

Draft 2. The Venusian

Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite my remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude. 

Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only moon begotten
I can dedicate a language to, is a fiction 
that this shroud is burning for.

Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness

that frightens the viridescence 
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a 
small bright deity of love.


Draft 1. The Venusian

Through nights long enough
to circle the source
of our being, despite remaining
untouched by other bodies
of consequence, I am left
to rediscover, time and time again,
a likeness in our solitude.

Because my sky is a barren womb,
the only satellite begotten
I can confess a language to
is the one I dream about in sulfur.

Yet still you broadcast your study
of my desolation. In what
way do I appear to you,
as you do to me, that you can distance yourself
from your own divinity?
There is the madness

that frightens the viridescence
from your terrain. In the protracted absence
of your song, it is my waiting
that you gaze upon, my believing that
you are as you were, a
small bright deity of love.